


The Madman and the Detective

by remanth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:35:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 33,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remanth/pseuds/remanth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty is back and he's playing a little game with Sherlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fairy Tale

Sherlock looked up in the middle of his speech about thermonuclear dynamics and how it related to the current case and realized John was no longer there. The doctor had left a note on the coffee table next to Sherlock and he picked it up in annoyance.

_Sherlock,  
Went to get some milk. Sarah texted me so I'm going to be going on a date with her after. Try not to shoot the walls while I'm gone.  
John_

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock jumped up from the couch and grabbed his phone out of the pocket of his coat. Honestly, when was John going to realize that the dates were useless? He already had a full life here helping with the cases. 

'Helping me,' Sherlock's active brain supplied treacherously. He shook his head and typed out a quick text to Lestrade, telling him the killer was actually the man's brother. He flopped back down on the couch, boredom already setting in. Usually, John was effulgent in his praise of Sherlock's deductions and the detective could preen a little bit under that adoring gaze. Now, he just stared at the ceiling and counted the hair-thin cracks again. His phone beeped an incoming text and Sherlock read it quickly.

Missing something, love? - JM

"JM? Who's JM and why are they texting me?" Sherlock wondered out loud, his interest peaked. He thought for a few moments about what he wanted to send back. Love was never a word that was applied to him, maybe this was a fan?

Not really. Who are you? - SH

Oh, you already know me. We had -such- fun together before. - JM

No one calls me "love". Therefore, I do not know you. - SH

And after the party we had at the pool. Really, Sherlock, I'm shocked and hurt. - JM

Moriarty? But you're dead. I saw you shoot yourself on that roof. - SH

You saw exactly what I wanted you to see, love. And I'm baaaaaack. - JM

Sherlock caught his breath at that. He had truly thought the consulting criminal was gone. He had dismantled the man's web, killed all the snipers, and finally come back to life. Everything was back to normal: he was working cases again, John was blogging about it, and Mycroft was trying to interfere. But that madman was back now? What could he possibly have that Sherlock was missing? His ears picked up the overwhelming silence in the flat and he closed his eyes. John.

Where is he? - SH

Nowhere you'll find him. Without my help, at least. Want to play a game, Sherlock? - JM

Not really. I just want John back. - SH

You won't get your pet without playing my game. So play or I will burn -him-. - JM

Fine. What game? - SH

A treasure hunt, love. You wanted to be a pirate when you were younger. This will be right up your alley. First clue is this: What runs without legs near the eyes that do not see? - JM

Sherlock glared at his phone, trying to piece the riddle together. His blood was boiling and foreign emotions were simmering just under the surface of his awareness. Taking a moment to evaluate what he was feeling, Sherlock was surprised to find anger and fear. Anger that Moriarty was back and had taken John and fear that he would never get his blogger back.

"What do you know?" Sherlock mused to himself. "Guess I'm not a sociopath after all. Oh, John, what have you done to me? The Work was easier without all these emotions getting in the way." He jumped up from the couch again and changed swiftly in his room. Going out in his dressing gown was not a good idea. He pocketed his phone and rushed outside but paused. Where was he going?

"Runs without legs? Eyes that don't see?" Sherlock repeated the text. "Well, water runs and there's the London Eye. That must be what he meant." Sherlock hailed a cab and rattled out the address of the London Eye. He hoped that he had figured out the clue in time, though he was sure this was not the only one. When the cab reached the boardwalk the eye was on, Sherlock threw the money at him and leaped out. A man came up to him and silently handed him a letter with a red magpie seal. Sherlock cracked the seal and read the letter on creamy parchment.

_Excellent job figuring out my first clue. Let's add a fairy tale to the treasure hunt. Once upon a time, a man sat on a wall. He thought and he thought and he thought so hard that he pitched over the edge. He broke and all of God's horses and all of God's men couldn't put him back together again. Find the wall Sherlock and find the next clue.  
Moriarty_

"God's horses and men?" Sherlock said surprised. "In the story, its the king's horses and men. He means a hospital then, one named after a saint. Of course, St. Bart's. Very clever, Moriarty, but I will find you yet." Sherlock decided to walk to the hospital; he wasn't very far away. Once there, he found the stairs to the roof quickly and strode out to the spot he had jumped from. Another letter lay there, same seal and same creamy parchment when he opened it.

_Better and better, Sherlock. Keep doing this well and you're pet will be back in your arms. Not that he really wants to be there, mind you. Why would he keep going on all those dates if he wanted to stay solving cases? Your next clue is this: In the home of my old girlfriend, I've left a memento of our time. Its square and gray and contains the next clue.  
Moriarty._

Sherlock ran back downstairs and down into the morgue to find Molly Hooper. She was the only girlfriend that Moriarty had that connected to Sherlock. Everything connected back to him, always. Molly looked up, startled, as he burst into her office.

"Do you have anything from Jim?" Sherlock asked breathlessly. "Something square and gray, maybe a handkerchief or parchment?"

"What? No, I don't," Molly replied. "Why?"

"He has John and I need to get him back," Sherlock replied. He ignored Molly's sharp intake of breath and asked, "Can we go to your flat? He says he left the next clue there."

"In... in my flat?" Molly asked, nervously. "No one's been there, Sherlock. I'd know."

"He could be and he wouldn't lie," Sherlock snapped. "Let's go. He'll hurt John if I don't find him in time." Molly looked sharply at Sherlock's eyes and sighed. That's how it was then? She stood from the stool and grabbed her coat.

"Let's go," she said. "I'm coming up on my lunch break anyways." They exited the building, Sherlock hurrying Molly as much as she would allow him. They piled into Molly's car and drove the 15 minutes to her flat. Sherlock jumped out as soon as the car stopped and paced impatiently in front of Molly's door. She opened it and froze in shock. Laying across her couch was a square of gray linen with black embroidery all over it. Sherlock marched in and snatched it up, examining it closely.

"Oh, god, he... he really was here.... he's not... dead," Molly stuttered, her eyes flicking over the rest of her apartment. "I need to.... make sure nothing was... stolen.... change my locks... Oh my god."

"Relax, Molly," Sherlock said absently. "He did what he meant to do and nothing else. Changing your locks is a good idea though." He continued to study the handkerchief, trying to make sense of the black embroidery. Molly fidgeted as she continued to look around her flat, finally convincing herself everything was ok.

"I've got it!" Sherlock exclaimed, making her jump. "This is a map of London and he's highlighted where he and John are. Have to go." Without a backward glance, Sherlock ran out the door and Molly sighed. He was never going to look twice at her. She checked the time and realized she had to get back to work.

Sherlock hailed a cab and directed the driver to the school that John had shot the cabby at. Shot him for him. Sherlock let the memories of that night drift through his mind, especially John's face afterward. He had really grown attached to the stalwart doctor and tried not to let what Moriarty had deduced get to him. It didn't matter anyway; John still stayed, still helped him. The cab pulled up outside the school and Sherlock got out, paying him. He stalked through the corridors, back to the room the cabby had taken him to all those years ago. He stopped short when he saw Moriarty smiling at him, holding a gun on John. The doctor was tied to a chair and his eyes were unfocused.

"If you've hurt him...," Sherlock started to say before Moriarty interrupted him with a high-pitched giggle.

"Had to make sure he didn't make a fuss, love," Moriarty cooed at Sherlock. "He's fine other than the little rap to the head. Wonderful job at figuring out my clues, Sherlock. You never cease to amaze me."

"Yes, fine, that's wonderful," Sherlock snapped. "Now let John go."

"But why would I do that?" Moriarty asked, his lips turning down into a pout. "I have you both here, let's have some fun. How about 20 questions? Everytime you lie to me, I hurt him." Sherlock clenched his teeth and nodded tersely. If this was the only way to get John away from here, he'd do it.

"Lovely, now what should I ask first?" Moriarty singsonged at him. "I know. Something embarassing. What was your first kiss, Sherlock?" The detective gaped at him, surprised. What in all hells was the point of a question like that?

"Haven't had one," Sherlock finally replied, his gaze still locked on John. He missed the sudden hunger that crossed Moriarty's face.

"Really, love?" Moriarty asked. "We may have to change that. Next question, your first case?"

"Carl Powers," Sherlock muttered quietly, the words drawn from his lips unwillingly.

"Me? I was your first case, dear Sherlock?" Moriarty crowed. "We are even more connected than I thought. How marvelous! All right, how about something a little more thought-provoking. If you could have any wish right now, what would it be?"

"I don't need to think about it," Sherlock replied, his eyes flashing. "You dead and John safe." A feral grin crossed Moriarty's face and Sherlock panicked. What had he said wrong?

"Oh, my dear, that's two wishes," Moriarty said, sadness mocking in his voice. "Poor, poor John has to suffer the consequences now." He turned and aimed the gun high on John's right shoulder. Moriarty squeezed the trigger and the gun barked, a bullet penetrating John's right shoulder. The doctor screamed weakly, his eyes still unfocused. Blood trickled down his jumper, staining the warm, cream wool.

"Damn it!" Sherlock shouted. "You never said it couldn't be a segmented wish." Moriarty just giggled at him, a high, thready sound. 

"And I never said it could," the madman replied. "I'm bored with this game anyways. I think it's time for my final revenge, don't you? You can have John back but how long you keep him is up to fate." With that, Moriarty winked at Sherlock and blew him a kiss. He turned back to John and shot him in the stomach, the doctor's eyes finally focusing a bit through the pain. More blood stained the jumper and the doctor tumbled from the chair, clutching his stomach.

"Now you have a choice, Sherlock love," Moriarty chuckled. "Chase me or save John. Which will you choose? Tick tock tick tock." Moriarty giggled one last time and darted through the second set of doors behind him. Sherlock stared after him, divided. Save John or take down Moriarty? What should he do?


	2. Multitasking

Sherlock was good at multitasking. He could let his mind wander down multiple paths and come to conclusions at the end of each all at the same time. But no matter how good he was, how quick he could be, not even the great Sherlock Holmes could be in two places at once. He stared at the doors Moriarty had fled through and then down at John. Blood was spreading across the floor to him from the wounds in the doctor's chest. Sherlock's heart clenched and he made his decision.

Sherlock rushed to John's side, pulling his phone out of his pocket. After snapping off the wounds and the address to the voice on the other end, Sherlock dropped the phone. He pulled John's jumper off and used it to try to staunch the blood leaking from the bullet holes.

"John, stay with me," Sherlock murmured constantly, his hands soon stained red. "You can't leave me here, keep your eyes open." John's eyes were glazed over again in pain and he couldn't focus. He heard Sherlock's voice as if through a tunnel and it was oddly distorted.

"Sher... Sherlock," John coughed, one hand reaching feebly up. "Moriarty.... back. Kidnapped me." The message he wanted to deliver told, John lay back and felt his breaths grow shallower. Sherlock took the outstretched hand in his, intertwining his fingers with John's.

"I know, John," Sherlock said soothingly. "Don't worry about it now. Just keep breathing, the paramedics are coming." The pool of blood wasn't growing bigger now, thankfully, but John's skin was turning pale. His eyes were closed and he was barely breathing. Sherlock panicked when he felt the chest stop rising underneath his hand and frantically checked John's pulse. There was none.

Sherlock screamed and started performing CPR on his friend, breathing deeply into John's lungs and forcing his heart to start again. He kept going until the paramedics shoved him away a short time later and took over. Sherlock sat there, blood covering his hands and arms, while the paramedics managed to revive John with a shot of epinephrine and atropine. After inserting an IV and dealing with the gunshots as much as possible, the two men lifted John onto a stretcher and started running back out to the ambulance. Sherlock trailed behind, not wanting John to get too far from him.

"He have any allergies?" the taller paramedic asked Sherlock. He shook his head, not even deducing the man like he normally did. The detective climbed into the ambulance after them and took John's hand. He wouldn't relinquish it and forced the paramedics to work around him. The ride passed in a blur as Sherlock studied John's too-pale face, committing every line and shadow to memory yet again.

"Sir, you have to let go now," one paramedic said kindly. "The doctors need to take him in to surgery." He gently detached Sherlock's hand from John's and stood there as the doctors wheeled the gurney carrying John away. Leading Sherlock to the waiting room, the paramedic pushed on his shoulders to make Sherlock sit.

"They are the best here," he said quietly. "Your partner will be fine." With a final pat on Sherlock's shoulder, the paramedic left. Starting to drop his head into his hands, Sherlock froze when he saw the blood coating his fingers. A strangled scream worked its way out of Sherlock's throat at the sight of _John's_ blood all over him. Panting, Sherlock stood and wobbled, panic and fear overtaking him again. He felt a hand on his shoulder and started, looking into the worried blue eyes of a nurse.

"There's a bathroom over there, if you want to clean up," she said, pointing at a closed door. "Your friend will be in surgery for a while." Sherlock nodded his thanks absently and stumbled to the bathroom. Washing John's blood down the sink didn't ease the tightness in his chest. If anything, it made it worse. It was almost like he was washing John himself out of his life. While drying his hands, his phone beeped an incoming text message.

Your little pet still alive? - JM

Sherlock growled as he read the text. He considered ignoring the madman for a moment, reveling in the annoyance that would probably cause the narcissistic criminal. Sherlock moved to slide his phone back into his pocket when it beeped again. Apparently, Moriarty could deduce him from a distance as well as Sherlock could deduce that madman.

Don't ignore me, love. And I truly am shocked you chose him over me. I thought we had something? - JM

We had nothing. And John is no longer your concern. - SH

So he is still alive! Lovely. Such a loyal little dog. No wonder you love having him around. But for how long, Sherlock? - JM

Again, none of your concern. What do you want? - SH

Is that sharpness I detect in your tone? Tut, tut love. What I want is to play the game. - JM

And I don't want to. Might I suggest you jump off a bridge and stay dead this time? - SH

Touchy, dear Sherlock. You have no choice. There are so many other pawns I can play with to draw you in. Who shall I choose next? - JM

What happened to never getting your hands dirty? - SH. Sherlock grimaced as he sent the text. Moriarty was drawing him into the conversation and Sherlock had no idea how to stop it. But there were people in his life that Moriarty could choose to hurt. People who might be killed because of their connection to Sherlock.

Well, since you killed my pet, I've had to improvise. That wasn't very polite of you, love. Want to be my new pet? - JM

Never. - SH

Never is a long time, Sherlock. Many things can change between then and now. I think I know my next pawn, love. See you on the board. - JM

Who is it? Damn it, Moriarty, this is between us and no one else. - SH

But no answering text came and Sherlock reluctantly put his phone back in his pocket. The whole exchange had taken a few short minutes and Sherlock was back to panicking over John's life. He walked slowly back to his seat in the waiting room and sank down. Putting his head in his hands, Sherlock let his mind wander. He kept images of John alive in his mind, the doctor laughing, smirking, talking, arguing with him. Minutes passed and Sherlock looked up blankly when a hand landed on his shoulder. A doctor stood in front of him, spots of blood speckling his scrubs.

"Sherlock Holmes?" the doctor asked. Sherlock nodded and waited for whatever news the man had to bring. "Dr. Watson is out of surgery now and in recovery. The surgery went well and no vital organs were damaged by either bullet. We recovered both and gave them over to the police. A detective inspector Lestrade I believe. You can see him now."

Sherlock jumped up and startled the doctor into a backward step. The detective gestured imperiously for the doctor to lead the way. Following after him, Sherlock couldn't help the smile that flowed across his face. John was alive. Everything would be ok once Sherlock saw his blogger. He paused inside the door to John's room and studied the doctor's tired face.

"Hey, Sherlock," John coughed weakly. "Good to see you."

"God, John," Sherlock whispered back. "Good to see you too. You remember anything?"


	3. Horror

John scrubbed a hand over his face while he considered Sherlock's question. Everything about the past few hours was a jumble with a few sharp moments. He looked back up at Sherlock and noted the fear and relief on the detective's face. Did Sherlock actually care for him?

"I remember getting a text from Sarah," John said. "But when I went to where we were going to meet, it was Moriarty. He hit me, knocked me out. The next thing I remember, vaguely, is hearing your voice and his and being tied to a chair. Then pain. And I could hear you telling me to stay. Not to leave you." He smiled as Sherlock actually blushed, a pale flush spreading across his cheekbone.

"I'm glad you're ok, John," Sherlock said quietly, still not moving into the room. "I'm sorry Moriarty used you to get to me. I really thought he was dead."

"It's ok, Sherlock," John said consolingly. "Everyone thought he was dead. And you don't have to stay at the door. You can come in and sit down." John gestured weakly at the chair next to the bed. Sherlock stumbled over, nowhere near his usual graceful self, and sank down into the chair.

"I thought you were dead," Sherlock said, his eyes on the floor. "I never want to go through that horror again. You've become important to me, John. I can't lose you."

"I'm not going anywhere," John said quietly. "I'm still here and I'm alive, thanks to you. Can you tell me what happened? How did you find me?"

"Moriarty left me clues to follow," Sherlock explained. "He led me around London and left the final clue at Molly's flat. It led me back to our first case, where you shot that cabby for me." Sherlock finally looked up to meet John's eyes. John nodded encouragingly at Sherlock to continue.

"He wanted to play a game," Sherlock said bitterly. "He asked questions and if I didn't tell the truth, he'd hurt you. He asked me what I wished for and I stupidly said two wishes. He shot you in the shoulder. Then he got bored and shot you in the stomach. Said I could have you back but how long was up to fate." John was silent for several seconds, replaying Sherlock's words in his head. He didn't remember anything specific from the conversation between Sherlock and Moriarty, just the sound of words.

"And what did you wish for?" John finally asked. He smiled as Sherlock started and looked back down to the floor. "Come on, Sherlock. I was shot for it. What did you wish for?"

"I wished Moriarty dead and you safe," Sherlock whispered, his hands clenching in his lap. This was the closest he'd come to telling John how he felt about him. The words burned in his throat, begging to be released. Swallowing hard, Sherlock let his eyes explore the room, touching everything but John.

"Sherlock, look at me," John said. He waited until Sherlock's eyes met his then continued, "Thank you. I can see how hard this is for you." He stretched his hand forward until he could touch Sherlock's and curled his fingers over the detective's clenched hands. A small smile crossed the detective's face and he uncurled his fingers to intertwine them with John's. His heart beat faster as he stared into John's eyes.

"You didn't lose me and you aren't going to," John said forcefully. "I care about you a lot and I'm not going anywhere." John smiled again at Sherlock and sat back, his hand still in Sherlock's. The detective's mind raced, running through the implications of John's sentence. Finally, he decided to just stop thinking and act on impulse.

Standing up and leaning over John, Sherlock brushed his lips over the doctor's. He stood back up and examined John's face. Shock was the primary emotion he could deduce followed by, of all things, happiness. John tugged on his hand and Sherlock tipped forward, his other hand landing on the bed and keeping him from falling into John. The doctor leaned up and caught Sherlock's lips with his, moving gently against them.

"I never thought you might feel anything for me," John whispered against Sherlock's lips. "So I kept my feelings buried. Though I'm surprised you didn't deduce even that from me." Shifting over on the bed, John pulled Sherlock in with him, wrapping an arm over the detective's shoulders.

"I didn't want to," Sherlock said shyly. "When I realized I... cared about you, I didn't want to see that you might not care for me. When I came back, I just wanted everything to go back the way it was. And it did. I didn't want to ruin that." John chuckled and laid his head back against the pillow. Their long talk had exhausted him and the pain from his wounds was creeping back. Sherlock shifted gingerly so that he could hold John's hand comfortably between them.

"I'm glad we've figured it out now," John said tiredly, his eyes closing. "Be here when I wake up?" Sherlock nodded and brushed another kiss over John's forehead. The doctor smiled and fell asleep, his breath slow and even. Sherlock's phone beeped from his pocket. Scowling, he twisted slowly and pulled it out.

Aw, how adorable. Your puppy loves you. But what are you going to do about little Miss Hooper, stuck here all alone with me? - JM


	4. Traps

Molly stretched and sighed, easing the crick in her neck from staring down at her computer. She had just finished entering the last autopsy report when her phone beeped an incoming text message. Molly looked at the number and tilted her head in confusion when she didn't recognize it.

Hey, Molly, it's Anna. Got a new number. Want to meet for coffee? - AG

Anna, how are you? Sure, I've got a story to tell you. Same place near the park? - MH

Wonderful. See you in about half an hour? - AG

Sounds great. Can't wait to see you. - MH

Molly smiled as she thought of the friend she hadn't seen for a few years. Anna Grant had moved to Dublin for a job, but it looked like she was back. Feeling happier, Molly shut down her computer and put away her files, throwing her coat on. She walked out to her car and drove to the coffeehouse.

When she got there, Molly looked around for Anna and couldn't find her. She heard someone walk up behind her with soft footsteps and turned with a smile on her face. It fled quickly when she saw who had really called her here.

"Hello, Molly dear," Moriarty said brightly, grinning ferally at Molly. "I've missed you so much."

"Jim," Molly breathed, panic filling her. "How are you still alive? I did the autopsy on your body myself."

"Yes, I know," Jim replied, stepping in close to Molly. "The double I chose was just perfect, if I do say so myself. I'm back now, Molly." He hissed the last sentence, an inhuman look of fury and glee crossing his face. Molly tried to back away from him, get away from the madman somehow, but he followed her and trapped her against the wall.

"Now, now, Molly," Moriarty admonished her gently. "I want to play a game and you are the next piece on the board. You _will_ come with me and you _will_ come quietly." With that, he took Molly's hand and placed it on his waist underneath the small of his back. Molly's eyes widened as her fingers traced the shape of a gun underneath his jacket.

"There, see?" Moriarty said conversationally. "We are just going to walk out of here like two people on a date or you will die. Let's go, Molly." Molly swallowed and nodded, her arm still held around Moriarty's waist. She knew she had no choice and only hoped she would have some chance to get away.

\------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock stared at his phone in shock. It had only been a few hours since Moriarty had run from him and he already had Molly? Sherlock realized the man must have been planning this for a while.

Where is she? - SH

Sitting safe and sound in a warehouse. For now. Ready to play my game, love? - JM

Yes. What do you want? - SH

Your challenge is this: walk into the warehouse safely, rescue Molly Hooper, and walk back out. The trick: make it past all my traps. The address is 413 North Street. Good luck, love. I really don't want to see your insides splattered all over. - JM

Sherlock grimaced and looked at John. He had promised to be here when the doctor woke up but he didn't know how long Moriarty would keep Molly alive. Pocketing his phone again, Sherlock gently shook John's shoulder until he woke up.

"Sherlock, what?" John mumbled, blinking tiredly.

"Moriarty has Molly," Sherlock explained. "He told me where she is but I don't know how long she is safe for. I didn't want to leave while you were asleep."

"Thanks," John said, smiling gently at Sherlock. "Go save Molly. I'll be here when you're done." Sherlock smiled at him and leaned forward to place another kiss on John's forehead. Then, he carefully slid out of the bed and rushed out. He felt time slowly trickling away.

\-------------------------------------------------------

The cab pulled up outside a dilapidated warehouse. The paint had seen better days, as had many of the windows. Sherlock examined the building minutely but found no traps on the outside. A note taped on the door provided him with his first clue.

_Sherlock  
There are three deadly traps inside. Trip one and the game is over. Molly is in the middle of the warehouse on the second floor, waiting for you. She is safe but time is running out. Hurry Sherlock, but be caaareful.  
Jim Moriarty_

Sherlock glared at the note, hearing Moriarty's voice singsonging in his head. After studying the door and seeing no evidence of tripwires or detonators, Sherlock carefully opened it. He stepped one step inside then looked at the floor, walls, and ceiling. Seeing no traps, he walked slowly down the hallway noting the neglect and disuse.

Several doors hung askew in their frames or were ripped completely off. Dirty gray light filtered in through the windows. The walls had once been painted an off-white color but were now a filmy gray. Beer bottles, broken glass, plastic cups, and other, less savory, detritus littered the floor. Finding the stairwell, Sherlock paused and ran his fingers over the frame. Finding no sensors or tripwires again, he walked into the stairwell and set foot on the first stair.

Immediately, a click sounded from beneath his foot. Sighing, Sherlock looked down and saw that the step was moveable and a landmine was hidden underneath the wood. He studied the mine and saw that it had actually been ripped apart then put back together. Two lines ran from it: one heading underneath the mine and one heading up the rest of the steps.

"Obviously, one cord disarms the bomb and one sets it off," Sherlock muttered to himself. "The red cord runs up the stairs, presumably to more landmines, and the blue cord runs underneath. For most bombs, the red cord is the one to cut."

Sherlock stopped here and gingerly felt his way along both cords. When he tugged on the blue one, he realized it was not actually attached to anything. Grinning at the laziness of Moriarty, Sherlock took a knife out of his pocket and cut through the red cord. There was another click and Sherlock removed his foot.

Knowing that cutting one cord probably wouldn't disarm the other landmines, Sherlock stepped to the outside of the stairs and used the railing to pull himself up to the second floor. He blew out a relieved breath and studied the floor, ceiling, and walls here. Up ahead, he could hear muffled thumping. It was as if someone was tied to a chair and struggling against the bonds.

"Molly," Sherlock whispered to himself, not knowing if Moriarty was around. He crept forward, testing every step before committing his full weight. Who knows if the floor was weak in places? Or even purposely weakened? He was so focused on placing his weight carefully that Sherlock didn't even see the tripwire until he stumbled into it and broke it.

As soon as he heard the metallic twang, Sherlock jumped back and fell to the floor. Barely a second later, a large rack with sawblades attached swiped through the area his head had been occupying. After making a return arc, the murderous piece of equipment swung lazily, the blades glinting in the dirty light.

"Too close and stupid," Sherlock hissed at himself. "Need to watch more carefully." He stood, trembling at how close he had actually come to death. Dodging around the swinging metal, Sherlock made his way to the end of the hall and opened the door slowly. Molly's terrified face met him, a white handkerchief gagging her. Sherlock held one finger up to his lips and Molly nodded eagerly.

Studying the room, Sherlock could see some of the tiles on the floor were discolored. They led in an arc directly to Molly and there was only one way to walk to avoid them all. This roused Sherlock's suspicions and he stared at the floor. The discolorations looked almost like a compass rose, circling in to Molly.

Stepping slowly, Sherlock made his way around the perimeter of the design. He got as close to Molly as he could before leaping over the discolored tiles to land in front of her. Wobbling, one foot crossed onto a tile and it fell underneath him. Looking down, Sherlock could see a large vat in the room underneath. The smell of rotten eggs wafted up to him.

"Sulfuric acid," Sherlock said wonderingly. "That much of it must not have been easy nor cheap for Moriarty to get. I'm glad I didn't fall into it." Molly nodded her head eagerly, making small noises to encourage Sherlock to ungag her. As soon as he did, Molly opened and closed her mouth several times working out the stiffness.

"We have to go. _Now_." Molly said urgently. "I overheard him talking on the phone with someone. He's got this place rigged with bombs." Sherlock nodded tightly and untied her quickly. They leaped over the discolored tiles and ran from the room.

Sherlock showed Molly how to avoid the landmines in the staircase then they dashed outside. As soon as the door closed behind them, a thunderous sound echoed throughout the building. A pressure wave knocked them both down while a wave of fire roared above their heads.

"Thank you," Molly stammered, her teeth chattering. "Thank you, Sherlock, for saving me." She hugged the detective awkwardly, her arms tight across his shoulders.

"You're welcome, Molly," Sherlock replied, surprised. "Now let's get out of here in case he has more surprises." They got painfully to their feet and limped out to the road. Sherlock hailed a cab and they both piled in. He started when his phone beeped a text message.

Very good, love. I truly am impressed. Don't expect your next challenge to be as easy. - JM

You called that easy? Your last trap almost killed us! What happened to three? - SH

I said there would be three you had to outwit. The last was just because. And I have my next pawn now, Sherlock. - JM

Who is it? What did you do? - SH

Sherlock kept checking his phone frantically, retexting the same message over and over. No answer came and he finally sat back, frustrated. Who could Moriarty have now? What did he have planned for their next move?


	5. Playing the Melody

"What was that about?" Molly asked curiously after Sherlock put his phone away.

"Moriarty," Sherlock growled, glaring out the window. "He has someone else but he won't tell me who or where. All he wants to do is play his _game_ " Molly gulped and knitted her fingers together in her lap. She knew how close she had come to death and was terrified for whoever Moriarty had kidnapped now.

"You know, you could call everyone connected to you," Molly offered quietly. "Jim knows everyone you care about. Just call and whoever doesn't answer is probably the one he's got." Sherlock turned his head to stare at Molly, a hopeful light dawning in his eyes.

"Molly, you are a genius," Sherlock muttered, pulling his phone back out. He called Mrs. Hudson first then hung up when her cheerful voice answered the phone. He thumbed through his contacts and hesitated over Mycroft's name. He really didn't want to call his brother but he also didn't want him in Moriarty's hands. Sherlock decisively pressed the call button and waited for his brother to pick up.

"Sherlock, how wonderful to hear from you," Mycroft's voice came through the line. "Why are you calling?"

"Moriarty's back," Sherlock replied tersely. "He's been kidnapping people close to me and putting them in situations where I have to rescue them. He's got someone else and won't tell me who."

"So you're calling to check on my welfare? I'm touched," Mycroft's voice went dry but his mind was working furiously. "How did he survive?"

"I don't know," Sherlock growled. "I watched him shoot himself in front of me. I thought he was dead."

"I will find out," Mycroft vowed. "That snake will not escape a second time."

"You do that," Sherlock said. "Got to call some other people. Bye, Mycroft." He hung up quickly and swallowed. Only two people left. He scrolled to the name of the hospital he had programmed into his phone and badgered a nurse into going to check on John. She assured him that John was in his bed, sleeping peacefully.

"It must be Lestrade," Sherlock muttered to himself. He dialed the DI's number with a heavy heart and waited while it rang. He was surprised when the other end picked up then scowled when Moriarty's voice screeched into his ear.

"Sherlock, love," Moriarty purred. "You figured it out. I wondered how long it would take. Yes, I have your DI and he will die if you don't find us in time." A burst of violin music replaced Moriarty's voice and Sherlock recognized The Danse Macabre. It stopped as suddenly as it started and Moriarty's voice came back.

"As long as I'm playing the melody, your precious Greg Lestrade lives," Moriarty hissed. "But I get tired and bored quickly, love, as you well know. As soon as I stop, he dies. And in such a beautiful and fitting place, too. Come to me, love. Come find me." Moriarty giggled insanely then disconnected. Sherlock lowered his phone and stared out the window again. The cab pulled up outside Molly's flat and he waved absently at her.

"Good luck," Molly whispered before limping up to her door. "You'll need it."

\----------------------------------------------

Greg opened his eyes and blinked stupidly. Bright lights bored into his eyes and all he could hear was a haunting song played on a violin. Blinking rapidly to clear the tears, Greg looked around and saw he was on a stage. He was tied to a chair in the exact middle of the stage facing out toward the chairs. His head still felt fuzzy and he was having trouble focusing. Throughout it all, the violin kept playing. Greg recognized it at The Danse Macabre, from watching Fantasia with his daughter.

"Who... who's there?" Greg coughed, trying to pinpoint the sound in the rows of seats.

"Just an old friend," a high-pitched voice giggled back. "My how easy you were to drug, detective inspector. Never even saw me coming."

"I don't have any old friends who would kidnap me and tie me to a chair in an opera house," Greg snapped, finally seeing a shadowy figure about halfway up the rows. "Who are you?" The song was starting to send chills down his spine, coupled with the crazy voice.

"Who I am is not your worry," the voice replied. "Your worry is whether Sherlock Holmes will find you before I get bored and stop playing."

"Why?" Greg asked, curiousity bubbling within him. "What happens then?"

"You die," came the simple answer. Greg struggled against his bonds, trying to slip his hands through the loops in the rope. However, whoever it was who tied him, knew his knots well and Greg couldn't get loose. Deciding he could do nothing for now, the DI sat back and closed his eyes. He concentrated on working through the aftereffects of whatever drug he had been slipped. Maybe a clearer head would help him escape.

\--------------------------------------

Sherlock sat with his hands steepled against his lips, his mind working furiously. Was Lestrade in a beautiful and appropriate place to die? Possibly a cemetary. Though there was an odd echo in the violin music coming through the phone. It didn't sound as if it was outside. So an appropriate place for music. And classical music at that. An opera house.

With a feral grin, Sherlock directed the cabby to an opera house in central London. He jumped out after throwing the fare at the man and dashed up the steps. He could hear faint music coming from inside. This was the right place! Sherlock eased the door open and snuck in. He paused at the entrace to the rows of chairs and studied Lestrade sitting on a chair on the stage. The obvious set-up made Sherlock snort.

"All right, Moriarty," Sherlock yelled over the sound of the music. "I'm here and you're still playing. Let Lestrade go."

"You are and I am," Moriarty replied, walking up the aisle towards Sherlock. "But what if I don't want to let him go? What can you do?"

"I'll go untie him myself," Sherlock replied, walking down the aisle towards Lestrade. Moriarty stopped playing and snapped his fingers. A little red dot traveled up Lestrade's chest and stopped in the middle of his forehead. Sherlock stopped in place and glared at Moriarty.

"Snipers, really?" Sherlock asked sardonically. "Repeating ourself? You must be running out of ideas."

"But why not use what works?" Moriarty replied, laughing. "That little red dot stopped you and Dr. Watson cold back at the pool. Couldn't risk losing each other, could we?" Moriarty's voice rose at the end and a manic giggle escaped his throat. Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"What do you want?" he asked tiredly.

"What I always want," Moriarty replied. "I want to play the game. See if you can keep up with me." The madman turned and walked back down the aisle, ending the song with a bright flourish. He lowered the violin and placed it and the bow carefully in one of the seats. He finished walking up to the stage, hopped up on it, and sat down on the edge. Greg watched him warily, his eyes still bleary.

"I want to play 20 questions again, Sherlock," Moriarty said, waving for Sherlock to walk forward. "You answer them satisfactorily, I'll let you and Greg here go." Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked to the first row. He settled himself down in a chair and looked expectantly at Moriarty.

"First question, love," Moriarty said conversationally. "How did you meet the dear inspector here?"

"He arrested me," Sherlock muttered. Moriarty laughed so hard he clutched his stomach.

"He _arrested_ you?" Moriarty crowed. "What did you do, Sherlock?"

"Drugs," Sherlock replied shortly. He didn't particularly like going into this bit of his past. "He arrested me and helped me into rehab."

"How sweet," Moriarty sneered, turning to look at Greg. "And what was the first case you two worked together?"

"A suicide," Sherlock replied. "At least, it was meant to look like one. Poor girl was strangled and then hanged to hide the murder." 

"Um. Sherlock, wait," Greg interrupted, the drug still affecting his thinking. "That was the second case." Sherlock's eyes widened in panic and he watched as Moriarty grinned evilly.

"Oh, dear," the madman said, mock sorrow in his voice. "Looks like we have to hurt Greg now." He stood gracefully and took one of Greg's fingers in his hands. With a quick and brutal twist, he broke the DI's index finger. Greg howled in pain, struggling against the ropes that held him.

"Next question," Moriarty said carelessly, dropping back down on the edge of the stage. "When did you realize you were in love with John Watson?" Greg made a startled noise in the back of his throat and stared at Sherlock. The detective just scowled at Moriarty, hating the power the madman had over him right now.

"When I left," Sherlock growled. "About a month after. I realized how much John had infiltrated my life. How empty it was without him."

"Awwww, its all because of little old me?" Moriarty asked sarcastically. "We are sooo connected Sherlock. When are you going to realize that?"

"I already have," Sherlock answered. "And I don't want to be. Now, can we go?" Moriarty waved his hand and stood again. He jumped down and picked up the violin tenderly. With a final grin at Sherlock, he walked up the aisle. About halfway up, he turned and looked at his watch.

"You have 30 seconds to get the detective inspector out of his ropes and away from here," Moriarty said easily. "Then the stage explodes. Ta!" He turned and darted out the door, manic laughter trailing him. Greg's eyes widened in fear and he struggled harder against his bonds as Sherlock jumped up onto the stage.

"Hold still, Lestrade," Sherlock snapped, pulling out his pocketknife. He sawed through the rope as quickly as he could, counting the seconds in his mind. As soon as he had freed Greg, he threw the man's arm over his shoulder and they ran jerkily off the stage and up the aisle. They had just reached the door when a deafening boom shook the opera house. Bits of wood and metal shrapnel flew around them as Sherlock and Greg fell to the floor.

"That was close," Sherlock said, helping Greg to his feet.

"Yeah," Greg replied shakily, shaking his head to clear the ringing. "Let's get out of here." They stumbled to the exit and found a cab waiting for them.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes and DI Greg Lestrade?" the cabby asked, opening the door to the cab.

"Yes," Sherlock answered warily.

"I was told to wait for you and take you to the hospital," the cabby replied. "Mr. Moriarty sends his regards." Sherlock and Greg shared a confused look then got into the cab. They were both tired and couldn't spare the energy to find another one.

"So, you and John?" Greg asked curiously when they were settled. "How long?"

"Not long," Sherlock said tersely. "I don't really want to talk about it." Greg chuckled and laid his head against the backrest. He had seen how the two men worked together and wondered if they were a couple. Now he knew. And he had won the office pool. A beep surprised him and he turned his head to see Sherlock taking his phone out of his pocket.

Hickory Dickory Dock  
Sherlock ran up the clock  
The clock struck one  
Sherlock ran down  
Hickory Dickory Dock

Hickory Dickory Dock  
Sherlock ran up the clock  
The clock struck two  
John asked where are you?  
Hickory Dickory Dock

-JM


	6. Hero

Sherlock tried to make sense of the nursery rhyme Moriarty had sent him. _John_ asked where he was? But Sherlock had called the hospital and the nurse said John was sleeping in his bed. Unless.... 

"How far to the hospital?" Sherlock demanded of the cabby.

"Not far," the man replied. "Just a couple minutes." Sherlock sat back in his seat, tapping his fingers against his leg. Ignoring the questioning looks Greg was giving him, Sherlock ran through mutliple scenarios in his head. It was entirely possible that the nurse he had spoken to had lied. Especially if Moriarty was holding something over her. And if the madman had an accomplice, evidenced by the sniper sight, he could easily had taken John after the nurse checked on him.

The cab pulled up outside the hospital and Sherlock leaped out, not waiting for Greg. He ran inside and up to John's room. Pulling up short in the doorway, Sherlock felt his stomach roll when he was confronted by the empty room. The blanket on the floor, knocked over machines, and phone ripped out of the wall attested to a struggle.

"John," Sherlock whispered to the room. "Where did he take you?" Whirling around, Sherlock stalked to the nurse's station and pinned the woman there with a glare.

"Dr. John Watson," Sherlock snapped. "Where is he?" 

"I... I don't know," the nurse stammered. "A man came in here, showed me a picture of my kids in school, and said they were dead if I didn't let him take him out of here. I couldn't let him hurt my kids."

"How long ago?" Sherlock asked quietly, his eyes narrowing.

"About an hour," the nurse replied. "I was told to lie if anyone called asking about Dr. Watson. I'm so sorry, but my kids. They are my life." Sherlock shook his head and walked away. The nurse slumped down, her head in her hands. Pulling out his phone, Sherlock sent a short text to Moriarty.

Where is John? - SH

My new pet has him, love. - JM

WHERE? - SH

Touchy, touchy. Already missing your loyal little dog? Remember where you first met him? Where you first met me? See you there, love. - JM

Sherlock shoved his phone back into his pocket and took the stairs down to the labs and morgue at a dead run. He didn't know what Moriarty had planned but he had access to plenty of things to make John's life nasty down there.

Skidding to a stop outside the lab he had met John in, Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and pushed the doors open. He saw John laying on the floor with a strange man hovering over him. The blond man had a gun trained on John's head and a smile played across his lips.

"Welcome, Sherlock Holmes," the man said conversationally. "Jim sends his regards. He'll be here soon."

"Wonderful," Sherlock muttered sarcastically. "And who are you?"

"Name's Gary West," the blond replied. "New friend of Jim's. He got me out of a bit of a nasty situation. Dishonorable discharge, all that."

"Who says I can't be helpful?" Moriarty asked merrily, breezing in through the doors. He smiled widely at Sherlock before moving his gaze to John. A look almost like jealousy crossed his face before it was wiped away.

"And now, Sherlock, we have my endgame," Moriarty explained, sitting on one of the metal stools. "Time to determine the hero of our story. Will it be me with my new pet sniper? Or will it be you with your loyal doctor?"

"Hero?" Sherlock asked incredulously. "I'm no hero." John made a strangled noise from the floor, his eyes locked on Sherlock's face. The doctor subsided when Gary tightened his finger on the trigger of his gun.

"Ah, John, you know the rules," Moriarty admonished the doctor. "I said no talking." Gary dealt him a swift and brutal kick to the left shoulder and John's eyes squeezed shut in pain. Sherlock stepped forward, anger on his face, to be stopped by Gary's gun swinging in his direction.

"Now, now, love," Moriarty said. "This isn't how we play. You stay where you are." Sherlock glared at Moriarty but stepped back, leaning his hip against the table.

"Oh, and how do we play?" Sherlock asked, his eyes studying Moriarty's face. The madman grinned and clasped his hands together.

"Well, you know I love fairy tales," Moriarty started. "And you know how the hero acts in them. So we're going to play a game. I'm going to give you a choice. Gary, here, is going to shoot someone. You get to choose who: Dr. Watson down there or you."

"You went through all this just to make me choose who to kill?" Sherlock asked disbelievingly. "This seems somehow small and petty. Didn't think you had it in you."

"I changed quite a bit after your fall, love," Moriarty purred. "You've been on my mind the whole time. How to get back at you, how to tease you, how to break you."

" _Break_ me?" Sherlock repeated, a smile crossing his face. "You did your worst to me and I'm still standing. What can you do now?"

"I can force you to kill your pet," Moriarty growled, standing suddenly. "I can force you to allow John here to die so that you survive. Everyone knows you're more important than him anyway. The world could stand to lose one doctor. Choose, Sherlock. Who gets shot?" Sherlock sighed and looked at John. The doctor had opened his eyes again and they were locked on Sherlock's face. When he saw Sherlock looking at him, John's eyes flicked up to see Gary looking away. 

'Me,' John mouthed at Sherlock. 'Me.' Sherlock's eyes widened, fear shooting through him. Ever the brave soldier, John was willing to die to let Sherlock live. A warm feeling flooded Sherlock's chest and he made up his mind. John wouldn't be the one hurt. Not this time.

"Me," Sherlock said confidently. "I choose me. Let John go."

"Are you sure, dear Sherlock?" Moriarty asked, mock concern in his voice. "Such a brilliant mind shouldn't be wasted."

"Me," Sherlock repeated. He glared at Moriarty as the man stalked forward, stopping just inches from Sherlock.

"Very well," Moriarty said. His hand darted out suddenly and pulled Sherlock's head down to his. He crushed his lips against Sherlock's, bruising him.

"At least I got your first kiss," Moriarty chuckled, backing away.

"No you didn't," Sherlock said, smirking. Moriarty's eyes went dark with fury and his hands clenched into fists.

"You weren't lying in the school," the madman hissed. "So what changed?"

"John," Sherlock replied simply. "Thanks to you." Sherlock's smirk grew wider as he watched the emotions cross Moriarty's face. He stood with his limbs loose, waiting for the bullet that would take his life.

"Gary, I've changed my mind," Moriarty snapped, moving back to sit on the stool. "Kill Dr. Watson."


	7. Are You Challenging Me?

"No, wait!" Sherlock screamed, one hand reaching down towards John. "Please, Moriarty." Gary grinned as he aimed for John's heart but turned his head to look at Moriarty. He knew the madman could change his mind at any point, for any reason. 

"Are you challenging me, Sherlock?" Moriarty asked quietly. "At least you're polite about it." Sherlock turned to stare at Moriarty, his eyes wide with fear. The only thing Sherlock could see through his blurry vision was the Cheshire-like grin the madman sported.

"And what would you be willing to do," Moriarty purred. "To save the life of your _dear friend_?" Unable to keep meeting the look in Moriarty's eyes, Sherlock dropped his head. He quickly ran through his mind palace, searching for all the little tidbits of John he'd stored there. And that made his decision easy.

"Whatever it takes," Sherlock muttered to the floor. He clenched his hands together, twining his fingers and gripping until the knuckles turned white. "As long as John lives, I'll do what you want." Moriarty clapped his hands, glee and hunger crossing his face. He waved at Gary, who stepped back and clicked on the safety of his gun. His talents would no longer be needed for now.

"Wonderful, wonderful, love," Moriarty crowed, moving to stand in front of Sherlock again. "We are going to have such fun together, I promise you." Sherlock turned away from Moriarty to meet John's eyes. The doctor was staring at him in horror, mouthing no. A trembling smile touched the detective's lips as he looked at John. At least he would be safe.

"All right, Gary," Moriarty said. "Let's get Dr. Watson here back to his bed." The sniper nodded and easily lifted John. They disappeared out the doors and Sherlock was left alone with Moriarty. His skin crawled at the thought.

"And you truly are the hero, dearest Sherlock," Moriarty whispered to him, running a hand down his arm. "To completely sacrifice yourself for someone else, how touching. And boring. Though at least I get to play with you now."

"You have no idea what a hero is, Moriarty," Sherlock bit out. "You can't understand why it's not boring, not dull. And you never will." The show of defiance only amused Moriarty. The madman giggled, a high, breathy sound and paced back to sit on his stool.

"It doesn't matter," he said, flicking a hand. "And your precious John Watson doesn't matter either. All that matters is I got what I wanted in the end. I have the world's only consulting detective dangling from my fingers."

"This was all part of your plan to get me?" Sherlock asked, disbelief in his voice. "All along you wanted to... what? To _own_ me?"

"Yes," Moriarty replied, drawing out the s. "I couldn't completely destroy you when you fell. You still controlled that little encounter. Same with the pool. You were in control in that moment. But now, I own you. And as long as John is alive, I will continue to own you. Wouldn't want his health to change drastically, now would we?" Sherlock didn't make any outward sign of how the words affected him, but his eyes darkened slightly at the truth of it. As long as John was held over him, he could do nothing to Moriarty. Could do nothing to save himself.

"So what's your plan now?" Sherlock asked sarcastically. "Going to blow up a building or two?"

"Oh, no," Moriarty laughed. "I have much more... private plans, love. And it's all thanks to your _heart_ that I get the chance to put them into motion." He motioned Sherlock to stand and gripped the detective's wrist hard enough to bruise. He roughly pulled Sherlock out of the room and through the hospital, waving down a cab.

After pushing Sherlock in, Moriarty climbed in and resumed his grip on Sherlock's wrist. He grinned as he felt the bones grinding together underneath his hand. He studied Sherlock's face, noting the signs of pain around his mouth and eyes. In a fit of curiousity, Moriarty squeezed tighter, digging his nails into the skin over Sherlock's pulse. He was rewarded by an anguished yelp bursting from Sherlock's throat.

"Don't hold back on me, love," Moriarty purred. "I'm going to learn all the little noises you can make. And we are going to have absolute privacy and time to do so." He pointed to a small building that the cab had stopped outside of.

"Soundproof walls, a pantry and kitchen stocked for a month, and all the toys I need," Moriarty explained. "Let's go have some fun." He pulled the unresistant Sherlock after him and up the stairs. He was going to enjoy this immensely.


	8. Mirror

Groaning quietly, Sherlock slowly lifted his head to the mirror on the wall across from him. The only light was a sallow yellow one, high up in the ceiling. He studied his face, noting all the bruises and scabbed-over cuts. Several of the cuts on his forehead and cheeks formed the letter M. The madman was sleeping currently, exhausted from all the things he'd been doing to the detective.

Sherlock licked his lips, tasting the warm copper flavor of his own blood. His lips were cracked and his mouth was dry but he still wouldn't ask for anything. The only sounds Moriarty had managed to wrench out of him were screams and cries. Sherlock prided himself on not bowing to everything the criminal wanted. He continued to study himself in the mirror, flinching at the wounds on his body.

Long cuts ran down his chest, grouped close together. One of Moriarty's favorite tools was a box cutter and he had several in a box near where Sherlock was tied. Blood still oozed from a few of the cuts and trickled down to his waist. Sherlock couldn't see part of his legs from his reclining position on the bed but he could see his feet. For some reason, Moriarty had concentrated a lot of attention on his feet. He had broken each toe carefully, keeping the bones lined up.

Dropping his gaze away from the mirror, Sherlock stretched as well as he could within his bonds. He tried to work each of his muscles while Moriarty slept in case he ever got the chance to escape. Though as long as John was alive, that was an unlikely scenario. A muffled sound from the other room made Sherlock freeze, his eyes darting to the doorway. But Moriarty didn't appear and soon quiet snores filled the space.

"John, I miss you," Sherlock murmured almost soundlessly. Those were the only words he ever uttered, long after he was sure Moriarty was gone or asleep. Not wanting to see the blood-spattered walls around him, Sherlock retreated into his mind palace. He walked through the myriad hallways of his mind, reaching out and touching things that triggered important memories.

Slowly, he made his way to the room he had devoted to John. The small room had grown into almost a whole wing of his mind palace since Sherlock didn't want to lose a bit of information about John. A golden cream swatch of fabric reminded him of John's favorite jumper, the smell of tea John's favorite drink. A short violin chord brought to mind all the nights Sherlock had played to ease John's nightmares. A metallic clink from another corner of the room brought the memory of John's dogtags into Sherlock's awareness. He saw them once, not long after John moved in. The ex-soldier wore them constantly for the first few months and he had caught a glimpse of them after John had left the bathroom. They seemed oddly fitting around his neck, dangling over his heart.

Remembering strengthened him, gave him the will to endure whatever Moriarty could throw at him to ensure John's safety. All of the memories had the well-worn feel of a dog-eared book, comfortable and familiar. Sherlock lost himself, wandering room after room. He had no idea how long he had wandered when the sound of soft footsteps permeated his consciousness.

"Wakey, wakey Sherlock," Moriarty sang from the doorway. "Time for some more fun." Sherlock opened his eyes to watch as Moriarty danced into the room. The madman paced over to the table with his tools and picked up a new box cutter.

"How about we start on a new area today?" Moriarty asked. "Don't want to do too much damage to one place on you, love." With quick, sure movements, Moriarty flipped Sherlock on the bed, the ropes twisting over his hands. Sherlock closed his eyes again as the now-familiar ratchet of the box cutter sounded through the room.

Moriarty hummed tunelessly to himself as he drew the blade over Sherlock's back. The skin parted easily, the sharp blade slicing down into muscle. The detective's whimpers and moans made an interesting counterpoint, Moriarty grinned to himself. He drew more lines down Sherlock's back, the blood pooling and running down his sides. As he traced more lines, the red glistening in the light, Sherlock started to scream, his voice bouncing around the room.

"Such a lovely voice," Moriarty murmured, sitting back and snapping off the dull bit of blade. He patted Sherlock's arm lovingly, smiling gently at him. Movement in the mirror caught his eye and he turned his head to stare at it. Sherlock's eyes were tightly closed and his lips were moving frantically.

"What are you saying, dearest Sherlock?" Moriarty asked him, tilting the detective's head towards him. "You can't keep secrets from me, you know." Sherlock shook his head, unwilling to give this last bit over to Moriarty. Unwilling to utter John's name in front of the madman.

"That's all right," Moriarty purred. "I'll get it out of you one way or another." He continued cutting again, humming the same tune in time to Sherlock's screams.

\---------------------------------------

"Greg, I don't care what it takes, we need to find him!" John yelled, glaring at the DI from his hospital bed. It had been a week and he still wasn't able to leave his bed. His unscheduled trip down to the lab thanks to Moriarty's henchmen had injured him further.

"I know, John," Greg replied, scrubbing a hand over his face. "But we have no idea where to start." John sighed, sinking back against his pillows. He tired easily, the medications the doctors were giving him wreaking hell on his mind. Then, a sudden thought burst into his mind.

"His phone," John breathed, his eyes opening wide. "He still had his phone. You should be able to track it."

"Yes, that should work," Greg agreed. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and pulled up the detective's number. He wrote it down then texted his second in command, Sally Donovan. She sent a confirmation text and he and John waited impatiently. When the next text came in, Greg almost dropped his phone in his haste to read it.

"The outskirts of London?" Greg asked. "They're still that close?" He looked up at a strangled sound from John. The doctor was struggling to sit up, stripping off the leads that led to the machines.

"I'm going with you," John said. "I need to get him back."


	9. Broken Pieces

John swung his legs over the edge of the bed and tried to stand. He pitched forward and would have landed flat on his face if Greg had not rushed up to catch him. The DI turned and pushed John back on the bed, the doctor unable to muster the strength to stop him.

"John, you aren't in any shape to go chasing after Moriarty," Greg said, pushing the call button to get a nurse in the room. "If you can't fight me putting you back on the bed, you won't be able to help Sherlock. I'll get him back."

"I need to come with you," John growls. "If you don't take me with, I'll just follow behind you, wounds be damned." A nurse came in, tsking at the disconnected leads. She walked over and gently pushed Greg out of the way, starting to reattach them all. John continued to glare at Greg until the DI sighed. He knew that John _would_ follow up on his threat/promise.

"All right," he said, raising his hands in defeat. "But you stay in the car. You've been shot already, you don't need it again." John nodded and waved the nurse away. She tried to argue and push John back down on the bed, but Greg shook his head at her. She tsked again and left the room.

John stood slowly and stumbled over to the little dresser with Greg's help. He pulled his clothes out and dressed, wincing at the pull of his stitches. He was panting slightly by the time he was done, but John gritted his teeth and pushed the pain down. He and Greg walked through the hospital and outside.

After folding himself into Greg's car, John waited silently on the drive to the tenement building pinpointed by Donovan. He worried his lip, thinking of all the things the psychopath could be doing to Sherlock. _His_ Sherlock. John felt a shock of warmth in his chest at that thought. He hadn't ever thought Sherlock might care about him and was thankful he did.

"We're here," Greg said quietly, looking over at John. The doctor nodded and squared his shoulders. Then, he relaxed as he remembered his promise. John's lip curled as he thought about staying in the car like a helpless child.

"Go," John muttered, his eyes skipping up the floors of the building. "Make sure he's safe." Greg nodded and patted John's shoulder before getting out of the car. He paused as he saw a man walk out of the building. He was wiry with dark hair. Greg didn't need to hear John's hiss to know that this was Moriarty. He debated going after the man but saw a few spots of blood on his clothes. That decided him. Sherlock was injured and probably needed help more than he needed to capture the madman right now.

Reminding John again to stay in the car, Greg stalked up to the doors and slipped inside. He could hear muted music from up above him and slowly made his way upstairs. When he reached the first landing, Greg pulled out his gun, falling into the Weaver stance. He edged around the door, kicking it open. The room was completely empty and Greg moved up to the third floor. 

Here, the music was louder and he could hear small whimpering sounds on the other side of the door. He pushed the surprisingly unlocked door open and walked inside. He saw a beautifully furnished flat filled with paintings and antiques. Another door led to a bedroom and the noises came from there.

Pushing open the door, he saw Sherlock tied facedown on the bed. He made sure no one else was there before putting his gun away and walking to Sherlock's side. The detective had his eyes squeezed tightly shut and was mouthing something. Greg's heart sank as he saw the cuts all over Sherlock's back. It looked like someone had taken his skin and broken it into several little pieces.

"Sherlock?" Greg said quietly, laying one hand on the top of Sherlock's shoulder. The detective started, his eyes snapping open.

"G...Greg?" Sherlock whispered, staring in shock. "Are you real?" Greg nodded, working at the knots in the ropes around Sherlock's wrists. The detective lay still, his eyes boring into Greg's face. The knots finally parted and Sherlock sat up with a groan. Greg sucked in a worried breath when he saw the cuts on Sherlock's chest and face clearly.

"God, Sherlock, what did he do to you?" Greg asked, his voice bleeding worry.

"Box cutters," Sherlock replied shortly, one hand lifting to almost touch the cuts on his chest. He scrambled off the bed suddenly, his stomach roiling at the memories of what had happened. Greg watched in surprise as Sherlock ran into the bathroom and heaved over the toilet.

"What's wrong?" Greg asked, moving to stand outside the doorway. Sherlock just shook his head and groaned, clutching his stomach. After a few more minutes of agonizing dry heaves, Sherlock wiped his mouth and sat back. 

"Bad memories," Sherlock explained, wincing as he got to his feet. He turned the water on in the sink and waited until it ran ice cold. He cupped his hands and drank, repeating the gesture several times until his thirst was slaked.

"We should get out of here," Greg muttered. "Moriarty's gone but I don't know for how long. And John's down in the car." Sherlock glanced sharply at him, anger flaring in his eyes.

"You brought John?" Sherlock snapped. "You just put him in inordinate amounts of danger. What if Moriarty sees him?" Sherlock pushed past Greg impatiently, hissing as his cuts slipped along Greg's clothes. The DI followed Sherlock out of the flat and down the stairs, alert to catch him if his legs gave out.

Sherlock could feel his heart pounding, the adrenaline burning through his veins. John was the only thing he could think of. John, downstairs, alone in a car. A perfect target for Moriarty. He burst out the front doors and stumbled to the car. John worked his way out of the car, bracing himself against the door. He grinned wildly at Sherlock but scowled when he saw all the cuts on him.

"Sherlock, what did he do to you?" John whispered, taking a wobbly step forward. Sherlock caught him in his arms, stooping to bury his face in John's neck. John stroked his arms carefully, avoiding as many of the cuts as he could. He could feel Sherlock's blood soaking through his shirt, but right now he didn't care. His ears perked as he caught Sherlock mumbling something against his skin.

"What are you saying?" John asked curiously, gently tilting Sherlock's face to meet his eyes.

"John," Sherlock whispered. "John, my John. You were the one thing that kept me sane in there." John felt tears burning in his eyes and he placed a gentle kiss on Sherlock's lips.

"I've got you now," John told him softly. "Let's get you to the hospital." Greg had caught up to them by now, circumspectly sliding into the driver's seat to give them some privacy. John and Sherlock climbed into the back, their arms wrapped around each other. Silence reigned in the car as Greg drove carefully back to the hospital. He looked in his rearview mirror at the two broken men and smiled to himself. If anyone could put their broken pieces back together, they could.

\-----------------------------------

Moriarty was whistling to himself as he walked back to his flat. He was carrying a small bag filled with water and ace bandages. He needed to give Sherlock some time to recover and care for his cuts to keep his plaything alive a good, long time. He noticed that the car that had stopped nearby the building earlier was gone.

Climbing the stairs quickly, Moriarty grinned as he thought of running his fingers over Sherlock's skin. Brushing over the cuts that marked the detective as his. A coil of warmth insinuated itself into his belly and spread throughout him. After climbing the stairs, he paused in confusion. The door to his flat was wide open, the music flooding the hallway.

A scowl crossing his face, Moriarty stalked in, looking around. The living room was still pristine, completely untouched. But the bedroom door was open as well. Moriarty took a deep breath, anger replacing the warmth in his belly. He paced inside, noting the empty bed. Fury narrowed his vision, the bed wobbling in his sight. Moriarty lashed out, his fist slamming into the mirror. Shards littered the floor, the broken pieces reflecting the sallow light back up at him.

"Damn you," Moriarty whispered to the empty room. "You have just signed your death warrant, love. You and your precious John Watson."


	10. Starvation

Greg pulled up outside the emergency entrance to the hospital. He turned in his seat to see Sherlock fast asleep and John cradling him gently against him. He smiled fondly at the two, a smile John returned tiredly. The doctor was still recovering from his wounds and tired easily.

"We should get you both inside," Greg said quietly, nodding at them. John sighed and nudged Sherlock, waking the detective enough so he sat up.

"Sherlock," John said. "Let's go. We need to get your cuts taken care of." Sherlock got out of the car, groaning at the pain. He held out a hand for John, wanting the tactile contact between them back. John smiled at him and took his hand after getting out of the car. Greg cleared his throat and followed them up to the entrance, making sure neither man fell.

John waved at a nurse when they made it inside, calling her over. The woman's eyes went wide at the cuts on Sherlock and the detective was immediately shown into a room. The nurse busily cleaned the cuts while John sat on the chair holding Sherlock's hand. He wouldn't relinquish it, even when the nurse glared at him, and forced her to work around him. Sherlock made no noises throughout the whole ordeal, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Only the steady pressure on John's hand convinced the worried doctor that Sherlock hadn't gone catatonic.

"Done," the nurse said, dropping the last of the bloodstained gauze into the biohazard waste bin. "The doctor should be here soon to look him over."

"I'm a doctor," John said, standing painfully. "And I've already looked him over. None of those cuts need stitches, he just needs rest. Can you put us in a room please? I need rest myself."

"That's really irregular," the nurse protested, glaring at John. "He needs to be seen by the doctor on call."

"And I'll repeat: I am a doctor," John said, annoyance in his tone. "Dr. John Watson. And Sherlock is ok other than needing rest and time for those cuts to heal." John fixed the nurse with his best I'm-a-Captain-and-you- _will_ -do-it look. The nurse wilted under the look and picked up Sherlock's chart to add a notation to it. She nodded at them to follow and walked out. She brought them up to John's old room. After settling the two in beds, she walked out with an annoyed look on her face.

"John," Sherlock whispered, his voice small and reedy. "John." John looked over at Sherlock and saw him huddling underneath the light hospital blanket. He had a look of abject fear on his face. This startled John so much that he slipped out of his bed and stood next to Sherlock's, taking the detective's hand in his. Sherlock's was cold and clammy, trembling visibly.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" John asked quietly, stroking his thumb over the back of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock just shook his head, drawing his knees up tighter against his chest. The sight broke John's heart; usually Sherlock was completely confident and self-assured. The detective's lips were moving silently as he stared at a spot directly in front of him. Slowly, his voice rose almost to a scream.

"John, John, John," Sherlock chanted, lost in his mind and memories. "Oh, it hurts. John, my John. John." Tears burning in his eyes, John slid into the bed next to Sherlock. The injured man tried to move away, his eyes wide in terror until John spoke soothingly to him. Sherlock eased into John's embrace, his arms stretching around John's waist and holding on tightly.

"It's all right, Sherlock," John murmured, kissing the top of Sherlock's head. "I've got you, you're safe now." After several minutes, Sherlock finally calmed down, sense returning to his eyes.

"John?" Sherlock asked, looking up into John's eyes. John sighed and nodded, the movement causing a tear to drop onto Sherlock's face. John brushed it off gently then traced his fingers over Sherlock's cheek.

"I'm here, Sherlock," John told him. "You don't have to be afraid anymore." With that, he leaned down and kissed Sherlock. The kiss was light and loving. Sherlock sighed into it and all the tension left his muscles. John took the kiss deeper as Sherlock relaxed against him. They kissed for several long moments, just breathing in the scent of each other. Finally, John pulled back and eased down further on the bed. He pulled Sherlock down so that the detective's head rested on his shoulder then ran his fingers through the dark curls.

"Sleep, love," John whispered, placing another kiss on Sherlock's forehead. "I'll watch over you." Sherlock smiled and nodded, draping his arm over John's stomach. He closed his eyes and drifted off, safe in John's embrace.

\-------------------------------------------

Gary, need your help with something. - JM

What's that? - GW

Revenge. Want in? - JM

Why not? Got nothing better to do. - GW

Good. I need you to kidanp Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. - JM

Ok. And where am I bringing them? And when? - GW

Bring them to 834 King's Road. Warehouse district. And as soon as possible would be lovely. - JM

I can do that. Why? What are you planning on doing to them? - GW

I'm going to kill them. Slowly and painfully. Starvation is such a horrible way to go. - JM


	11. Give Up

Gary stared at himself in the mirror, putting the final finishing touches on the make-up he'd smeared over his skin. Disguising himself was absurdly easy, a talent he'd picked up while he was still with the military. Sometimes, he'd needed to get close to a target, scope out the area and the people, before being able to take them out. After almost getting caught by one warlord's security guards, Gary had enrolled in a theater class that taught how to apply make-up and prosthetics to change one's appearance.

Tapping one last time at the prosthetic over his cheeks, Gary sat back and surveyed his handiwork. He looked like an older gentlemen, silvery-gray hair fluffing over his ears. The prosthetics puffed his cheeks and chin out, making his face look chubbier and rounder than it actually was. And expertly applied make-up made it seem as if his skin was slightly wrinkled and dry.

"They won't recognize me like this," Gary said, changing the pitch of his voice with every other word. He said a few more things to the mirror, varying his pitch until he found a tone he liked. After pocketing his handgun, Gary grabbed his cane and affected a limp as he walked outside. He walked for a block to get used to the limp before hailing a cab and directing it to the hospital Sherlock and John were in. He had a job to do.

\------------------------------------------------------------

After a few hours, Sherlock woke up and froze. He looked around the room, determining that Moriarty was not there and he was no longer tied down. Though a warm weight was plastered to his side. Looking over, he saw John's face, slack and open in sleep. Sherlock smiled and brushed one hand gently over John's forehead. The doctor stirred and woke.

"Sherlock, are you ok?" John asked immediately, sitting up and rubbing at his right shoulder.

"I am," Sherlock replied, nodding. He brushed a hand over John's cheek, just because he was able to now. The simple contact warmed the heart he'd long believed he didn't have. He impulsively hugged John tight to him, memories of the week he'd spent as Moriarty's captive receding further and further away.

"I'm glad to hear that," John said, his arms wrapping around Sherlock. "You went somewhere deep in your memories before we fell asleep. Reliving what he did to you, I'm guessing."

"I don't remember," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "But I remember your voice. I followed it back."

"I'll keep that in mind," John said, pulling Sherlock in for another quick kiss. "In case it ever happens again. Shock and trauma can be a difficult thing to deal with."

"I know," Sherlock said, his eyebrows drawing together. "Though I would have thought I'd have more control over it. I control my mind, after all."

"Yes, but your mind is the part that's traumatized," John argued. "And you went through hell, Sherlock, don't deny it. That _will_ affect you, no matter what you think. Believe me, I know." John fell silent at that, his own memories of Afghanistan flowing past his mind's eye. Sherlock watched him for a moment, words dancing on his lips. But he held them back. He wanted to see John like this, open and vulnerable. Because he knew that John would see the same in him, he needed to know they trusted each other.

"Thank you," Sherlock said instead of the argument that had risen to his lips. "Thank you, John." He leaned down again and pressed a light kiss to John's lips. The words couldn't adequately express his gratitude and love of the man before him, so he hoped the gesture would. They'd always been able to understand each other without words before, why should this be any different?

John smiled against Sherlock's lips, understanding what he was trying to say. One hand gently brushed over Sherlock's cheek, tracing the edge of his cheekbone. They both pulled away together, staring deeply into each other's eyes. The moment broke when John ran a hand through his hair and grimaced.

"He's not done, you know," John said quietly. "He's still out there. And he's going to try to take you again." Sherlock froze at that, his mind already spinning out possible endings to being kidnapped again. He could feel John tracing gently over the cuts on his face and his mind just shut down again.

Abruptly, Sherlock was back in the little room, the horrid music playing in his ears. He could hear Moriarty's giggle and Sherlock shrank in on himself, repeating John's name in an effort to keep his sanity.

John felt Sherlock pull away from him again and shivered when he saw the blank look in the detective's eyes again. So he did the only thing he could: he held Sherlock close and spoke soothingly to him, trying to draw the man back and out of his personal hell.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

"I'm looking for my grandson," Gary said, his voice shaky and somewhat deeper than his normal one. "His name's John Watson and he's a doctor. Though he was injured." The nurse smiled at him, commiserating in the fact that his supposed grandson was injured.

"I've got his room number right here," she said after flipping through a couple charts. "And since you're family, I'll let you up there even though its past visiting hours." Gary gave her his most charming, innocent smile and thanked her. He took the post-it note she had written the room number down on and walked away without a backwards glance. The nurse forgot about the kind old man who had asked after John Watson and wouldn't remember until long after the police had questioned everyone on the floor.

Gary walked purposefully through the halls, dropping his limp a little bit. He walked as if the cane was an affectation rather than a requirement and got many interested looks from young and old ladies alike. He couldn't help but chuckle quietly to himself at that. If only they knew who he really was.

He paused outside John and Sherlock's room, listening closely to the murmuring coming from within. He didn't recognize John's voice but knew it wasn't Sherlock. When no other voice answered, he felt confident enough to walk into the room and take stock.

John and Sherlock were sharing a bed, the detective staring blankly in front of him with a terrified look on his face. John was talking to him and holding him, a worried look on his face. Gary walked in and sat down quietly, confident they wouldn't recognize him. He popped open a small compartment on the cane and pulled out two syringes filled with a powerful tranquilize.

"Can I help you?" John asked tersely, looking over at him.

"Not right now," Gary replied kindly. "Came to see my grandnephew Sherlock, but he looks like he's far away right now."

"I didn't know he had a great-uncle," John mused, looking at Sherlock. Gary congratulated himself on the quick lie, hoping the doctor didn't know all that much about Sherlock's family.

"We don't talk often," Gary continued smoothly. "Sherlock's mother and I don't get on so I don't see him as much as I'd like." He watched John relax fractionally, some of the military alertness bleeding from his shoulders. Gary readied the syringe in his hand, popping the cap off and shoving it in his pocket. No sense leaving any evidence behind, no matter how small.

Standing up, Gary moved slowly over to the bed, projecting harmless old man as hard as he could. John didn't even look up from Sherlock's face, convinced that the man he thought was Sherlock's great-uncle was no danger. As soon as Gary made it to the side of the bed, he lunged quickly and injected the tranquilizer into John's neck. The doctor opened his mouth to shout but slumped sideways, the drug taking an almost immediate effect. His eyes glittered angrily at Gary as the sniper injected Sherlock as well.

As both men fell into unconsciousness, Gary took a moment to savor a job well done so far. Now he needed to get both men out of here without rousing suspicion. He saw an empty laundry cart sitting in the hallway and smiled. That would be perfect.

After wheeling the cart in, he manhandled Sherlock into it first. He folded the detective's bony limbs in and wasn't especially careful to make sure he wasn't bruised. He dropped John on top of him, earning a groan from both men. He took the sheets off both beds and arranged them over the top of them, hiding both men completely.

Humming quietly to himself, Gary moved the cart out of the room and down the hallway, stopping at the elevator. He nodded cheerfully at the nurses getting off and maneuvered the cart into the elevator. He picked the level that led to the parking garage and waited until the quiet ding told him he'd arrived. He wheeled the cart up to a van and picked the locks quickly.

Dumping Sherlock and John into the back, he climbed in the front and hotwired it. The reassuring rumble of the engine had Gary smiling again. He pulled out his phone to double check the address Moriarty had sent him and to send a text of his own.

Got them. Heading to the warehouse now. - GW

Excellent. There's a room prepared for them. Put them in it and lock the door when you leave. - JM

Gary put his phone away and drove carefully out of the parking garage. On the way to the warehouse district, he obeyed all the traffic laws and didn't speed. It wouldn't do to be pulled over now. He had no explanation for the men in the back and he was pretty sure Moriarty would find a way to kill him for failing.

About half an hour later, Gary stopped the van outside a rundown warehouse. Most of the windows had been shattered and those that weren't were grimy with dirt. The building was made of a pale gray stone which looked dirty as the sunlight shined on it. Gary turned the van off and went around the back, pulling the laundry cart back out.

After putting Sherlock and John back inside it, he pushed the cart into the warehouse and saw that it was mostly empty space inside. A small room had been set up in the middle of the floor with a sturdy-looking deadbolt on the door. He wheeled them inside and dumped the cart sideways. The two unconscious men tumbled out and Gary pulled the cart out after him. He locked the door and smiled again as he pulled out his phone.

They are secured. Want me to stay here until you get here? - GW

No, Gary, this is something I want to enjoy on my own. Go back to your flat until you hear from me. - JM

Gary pocketed his phone and left the warehouse, confident that the two men he was walking away from were never going to see the light of day again. Getting into his stolen van, he drove it to another part of town far away from his flat and abandoned it after wiping every surface that he had touched. Walking a few blocks and hailing a cab, he smiled to himself the whole way back to his flat. A job well done was sometimes its own reward, really.

\---------------------------------------------------

Moriarty rubbed his hands together in glee. His pet sniper had performed perfectly, taking Sherlock and his precious doctor from the hospital and bringing them to the warehouse Moriarty had set up for them. Jumping up from his reclining position on the bed Sherlock had so recently occupied, Moriarty paced the room for a few minutes to get himself under control. He had to be calm.

After calming himself enough to be able to speak in his usual confident voice, Moriarty walked out of the building and hailed a cab. He smirked as he thought of the two men trapped in a small room and tipped the cabby extra when he got to the warehouse.

Moriarty walked inside slowly, savoring the sight of the room. He was a bit surprised to see the white laundry cart but surmised it to be the way Gary carried the unconscious men here. He set himself a mental note to congratulate Gary on not leaving it in the room. He didn't want to give Sherlock or John any reason to hope for escape.

He circled the room quietly, listening for any sounds from within. Nothing came from inside and he wondered if they were still knocked out. Moriarty danced to one of the one-way windows he'd installed and peaked inside. Sherlock and John were in the same positions Gary had dumped them in, Sherlock resting half across John. Moriarty snarled at the sight; he considered Sherlock his.

Sweeping his eyes over the rest of the room, Moriarty calmed himself again. He would have plenty of time to play with them. He noted the small bed had no sheets or removable parts. It was made all of one piece and had a single mattress resting on the frame. There was a small portable toilet in the corner and several gallons of water in another corner. Moriarty meant for them to survive for a little while. At least until starvation killed him.

"I'm never going to give up, love," Moriarty purred, resting his eyes on Sherlock's form again. "You're mine and I am going to burn you. Then I will kill you."


	12. Solitude

Sherlock had always been able to do solitude well. He'd had to learn to, to cope with how others treated him. Sherlock had locked his heart away, safe from the taunts of other children. Safe from the confusion and fear in adult faces.

When he became an adult, Sherlock hid behind the words "high-functioning sociopath". The person who was closest to him for the longest time, DI Greg Lestrade, believed that. Believed Sherlock had no heart, no emotions, so when he was rebuffed the first few times he tried to be a friend, Greg backed off. He treated Sherlock paternally businesslike because that's as far as the arrogant detective let him in. So Sherlock lived alone and believed alone was better. Until the day he met John Watson and the stalwart, ex-army doctor saved his life.

But none of these thoughts were going through Sherlock's head as the tranquilizers wore off and he woke up. The first thoughts he had, when he could focus, were the floor is cold, something was lying uncomfortably underneath him, and that something was pleasantly warm. Opening his eyes, Sherlock sucked in a relieved breath when he identified John's familiar and loved face a few inches from his own. His John.

Realizing most of his upper body was sprawled across John's chest and impeding his breathing, Sherlock sat up carefully and looked John over. Other than the puncture wound in his neck, which was starting to purple, John appeared unharmed. Sherlock smiled fondly at the still-unconscious John then checked himself over. He had a similar puncture wound in his neck and a dry and fuzzy mouth but was otherwise uninjured.

He noticed the gallons of water in the corner but decided not to chance them right now. Who knew what they might contain? Sherlock could think of at least 8 noxious substances, ranging from poison to paralytics to corrosives, that the water might feasibly disguise without even trying. It was much safer to wait and deal with the feeling in his mouth.

After checking on John again and determining that he would be unconscious for at least another ten minutes, Sherlock raised his eyes and studied the room. It was a medium-sized room, about 20 feet by 20 feet. The walls had been painted a steel gray and there were mirrors in each wall. Sherlock tilted his head at those for a few moments, a suspicion worming its way into his mind.

Standing slowly, Sherlock walked over to the closest mirror and pointed his finger at it down near the bottom. He pressed on the glass and nodded in satisfaction when the reflected finger touched his real finger. He quickly repeated the test with all the mirrors and had the same result.

"One-way glass," Sherlock murmured. "Someone wants to see in and not be seen. Moriarty?"

He continued to study the room, looking for a weak point or any way to contact the outside world. The door was solid steel, more like a fire door than anything else. It bolted from outside and had three deadbolts. There was no handle on this side of it. He turned back to the bed he saw in the corner and lifted the mattress to see if he could find any removable pieces. The frame was a carved wooden piece with no joins or seams. Which meant no nails or bars he could use as a weapon. The floor was concrete and had no carpeting on it.

A small groan from John caused Sherlock to move to his side and place a gentle hand on the doctor's shoulder. He was impressed with his doctor: he had only been studying the room for 7 minutes and John was already waking up.

"John," Sherlock said softly when John's eyes cracked open. "Are you all right?"

"I guess so," John said, scrubbing a hand over his face. "You don't have a granduncle, do you?"

"I do not," Sherlock replied, confused. "Why do you ask?"

"Because that's how whoever kidnapped us got to us," John explained, grimacing. He couldn't believe he'd fallen for it. "The guy looked older, gray hair and slightly wrinkled face. He was fairly friendly and said he knew your mother."

"Well, in case that ever happens again," Sherlock said with a smile. "My only family includes my brother Mycroft and my mother." John chuckled lightly and looked around the room. He did the same test with the windows and had to laugh at the surprised look on Sherlock's face.

"What, didn't think I knew how to tell a mirror from one-way glass?" John asked, moving to the bed and studying it. "I was a soldier, Sherlock. This room actually reminds me a lot of detention cells. Though a bit bigger than those were."

"You continually surprise me, John," Sherlock said fondly, moving to sit on the bed. "Did the man say anything else to you before we were drugged?" John thought for a moment, coming to join Sherlock on the bed. His mind was still a bit hazy, the tranquilizer taking a while to wear off.

"Just that he didn't get to see you as often as he liked because he and your mother didn't get along," John said. "He seemed so harmless and friendly and I relaxed my guard around him. I'm sorry, Sherlock, this is my fault."

"Nonsense," Sherlock said, waving a hand in the air. "There was no way you could have known. We haven't really discussed my family other than Mycroft. And only him because he constantly keeps butting into my life." John let a small smile slip onto his lips as he leaned into Sherlock. The detective wrapped an arm around John's shoulders, surprising himself by craving and enjoying the touch.

"I think it's Moriarty," John said quietly. "He's the only one who would do this. And don't go back to your memories, Sherlock. I need you here." Sherlock shook his head and fought the memories back, knowing he was less than useless when trapped in his own mind. His arm tightened over John's shoulder and the doctor slung an arm across his waist.

"Stay with me, Sherlock," John continued softly. "You can do it. You're safe with me right now."

"How sweet," a voice drawled. "But such a lie, Johnny-boy. Neither of you are safe here." John tensed, his jaw clenching in anger. He recognized that voice immediately. It was indeed Moriarty who had kidnapped them and locked them in this room.

"What do you want this time?" Sherlock asked, affecting boredom though he was shivering in John's embrace.

"What do I ever want, dearest Sherlock?" Moriarty continued, his voice coming from a speaker implanted in the roof. "I want you to suffer. I want to _burn_ you."

"And sticking us in a room is going to accomplish that?" John asked dryly. "How exactly is it going to do that?" A mad, high-pitched giggle met their ears and went on for entirely too long. A few moments after the laugh stopped, Moriarty cleared his throat.

"You both are going to die a very horrible, lingering death," Moriarty explained, the laughter still evident in his voice. "You are going to watch each other starve to death."


	13. Laugh

The mocking laughter from Moriarty ended in a quiet click as the speaker shut off. John and Sherlock stared at each in the sudden silence, fear and worry dancing in both of their eyes. John was the first one to break the look, swivelling his head to take in the rest of the room.

"I'm guessing you already explored the room minutely?" John asked, turning back to Sherlock. The detective nodded and sighed.

"There are three bolts on the door. I _could_ pick them if I had something to do it with. However, I have no tools or even a bobby pin," Sherlock said, glaring at the door as if it was its fault.

"We'll figure something out," John said soothingly, laying a hand on Sherlock's arm. "My mouth is really dry right now though. Have you checked that water? Is it safe?"

"Not yet," Sherlock said dismissively. "But knowing Moriarty, probably not." They sat in silence for a few more moments, the only contact between them John's hand on Sherlock's arm. John thought furiously, trying to remember if Greg had said anything about checking on them. He didn't think they'd left any sign they'd been taken in the room though. Their kidnapper had been far too efficient and John mentally kicked himself over it.

"Don't blame yourself," Sherlock said suddenly, staring intently at John. "You can't guard against every single person and every single lie every moment of every day. You are human John and you have a belief in the basic goodness of humanity."

"I still can't get over how you do that, Sherlock," John said admiringly. "You have this uncanny ability to read my mind no matter what I'm thinking."

"I know you," Sherlock said simply. "I've learned how to read the smallest expression on your face and interpret it."

"That's actually flattering, coming from you," John laughed and moved closer to hug Sherlock. They flinched, though, and John leaned back when the speaker crackled to life again.

"Hello again, love," Moriarty said, the singular noun screaming loudly exactly who he was speaking to. "I'm sorry our time in the flat was cut short. We were just getting to the good parts."

"There were no good parts," Sherlock snapped, glaring at the door again. "Moriarty, I'll make you the same deal I made earlier. You can have me but let John go. This game is between us, not him."

"Oh, but my dear, you involved him yourself," Moriarty cooed over the speaker. "Choosing him over me like you did. How could I not bring John into our game? And look at all the fun he's been having!"

"Moriarty, I swear when I get out of here, I will shoot you myself," John snapped. "You are just too damn annoying to live."

"I'm heartbroken, Johnny-boy. I thought you'd like to be included with Sherlock," Moriarty laughed, a high-pitched, manic noise. "Besides, I've given you the best gift of all. You two get to live the rest of your lives together. I'm going to be going now, but don't think I don't have my eyes on you two. There are cameras hidden in the room and they will capture your every breath and scream. And I want you to scream for me as you slowly starve. Ta, dears!"

The loudspeaker clicked off again but they couldn't hear anything outside the room. The two trapped men had no proof that Moriarty had left and there was no way of guessing with any surety. Moriarty was one of the hardest people to pin down simply because he was insane and prone to change his mind with a whim.

"That was soothing," John said sarcastically. "I'm just glad I'm not trapped here alone. Solitude and I do not get along."

"It's something I've always been accustomed to," Sherlock said quietly. "But I am glad you're here as well. I don't want to be alone here." John wrapped his arms around Sherlock again, simply holding the detective. Sherlock slowly lifted his arms to hug back, still not really used to contact like this.

Their first day passed slowly and quietly as each man adjusted to their new situation. They were able to keep track of time using John's watch. Around midnight, they looked at each other and made the decision to share the bed. It was more comforting being close together anyways.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Two days passed before John became desperate enough to try the water. He overrode all of Sherlock's objections and opened a gallon. He took a quick drink before Sherlock could snatch it out of his hands or drink it himself. Making Sherlock wait 10 minutes, John determined that the water was fairly safe, if rather stale. They drank the first gallon, sharing it between them, over the next hour.

After calculating how much water they had, Sherlock determined that the remaining gallons would only last three weeks, if they rationed it carefully. He knew that it could take a long time for a person to die of starvation and he wasn't looking forward to getting first-hand experience. Though, if Moriarty truly did intend them to die of starvation, he would eventually have to restock their water. Grinning ferally at the thought, Sherlock tried to make plans for how to overwhelm and subdue the madman if he ever entered the room.

This kept Sherlock occupied for a few hours while John ran through some exercises he was using to keep his body fit and stave off boredom. He hadn't tried to convince Sherlock to join him, knowing the detective would term it dull.

Another day passed before they broke the silence. John started telling Sherlock about some of his missions in Afghanistan while Sherlock shared some of his more interesting experiments. While he was talking about one that involved a knife and a watermelon, the memories from Moriarty's flat intruded again and Sherlock was trapped in his own mind.

John rocked him on the bed after manhandling him off the floor where he had fallen. Speaking quietly and confidently, John continued telling stories of his time in the military. He concentrated on his friends and his training, never bringing in any actual tension or fighting. Sherlock mouthed John's name continuously, his eyes wide open and glassy. His heart breaking, John peppered kisses on Sherlock's face, begging him to come back.

John's voice was the anchor that Sherlock clung to, finally pulling out of his memories and taking a deep breath. He focused his eyes on John's face and met John's lips as the doctor leaned forward to kiss him.

"Sorry," Sherlock said, his voice hoarse. "I know you need me here now. I'll try not to let the memories take control again."

"Oh, Sherlock, it's all right," John said, relief making his voice light. "I'm just happy you're back. I worry, seeing you almost catatonic like that." Sherlock nodded, stretching out on the bed with John curled into his side. John draped one arm over Sherlock's chest and tucked his head against his shoulder.

"You should try to sleep now," John said quietly, turning his head to look into Sherlock's eyes. "Rest will help you recover faster and keep your strength up."

"My mind is racing now, John," Sherlock said dismissively. "I don't think I could sleep even if I wanted to." John thought for a moment, trying to figure out something to put the detective to sleep. He discarded anything physical immediately. They hadn't discussed it, but both felt a strong aversion to starting anything like that while trapped here. He finally decided on a song that his mother used to sing to him when he was sick. It always put him to sleep.

"Sherlock, I'm going to try something, but you don't get to make fun of me for it," John said, propping himself up on his elbow so that he could better see Sherlock's face. "This always used to put me to sleep when I was younger."

"I doubt it will work on me," Sherlock said, snorting quietly.

"Just please relax and try to let it?" John asked. "You really need the rest." Sherlock glanced into John's eyes and saw the worry floating there. He nodded, his heart clenching at the fact that _he_ was putting that worry there. John smiled down at him and took a deep breath. Then he began to sing, softly.

"May the road rise up to meet you  
May the wind be at your back.  
May the sun shine warm upon you  
Until we meet again may God hold you  
In the palm of his hand."

John sang the song once through then repeated it, his voice never rising above a soft murmur. Sherlock listened, entranced, not expecting the warm tenor that burst from John's throat. As the song continued, the simple melody and rhythm of John's voice calmed him. His mind stopped racing and he started breathing deeper. John sang quieter as he saw Sherlock's eyes droop closed, one hand gently caressing the detective's cheek.

As soon as Sherlock's even breathing signalled he was asleep, John stopped singing and took a deep breath. His throat hurt from protracted use after such a long silence but he decided it was worth it to see the open and trusting look on the sleeping Sherlock's face. Carefully lying back down, John draped his arm over Sherlock's chest again. He quickly slid towards sleep, lulled by the warmth of the man in his arms.

John was almost completely asleep when it started. Music came in over the speakers, as soft as he'd been singing. He didn't understand why and let it go as sleep reached up to claim him. John didn't see the open look leave Sherlock's face to be replaced by one of terror. He might have understood why the music was played if he had.

Moriarty stood outside the window closest to the bed, envy burning in his heart. He wanted to be the one in there with Sherlock, having the man surrender everything to him. After John had stopped singing, he'd decided to torment the detective a little bit more. Playing one of his favorite pieces from his and Sherlock's time together, Moriarty sat back in the chair he'd put in front of the window and waited for the nightmares to start.


	14. Judge

_Sherlock was tied to the bed again, sitting mostly naked and staring at his haggard face in the mirror. That horrible music was playing again, some sort of elevator-music classical pieces. He studied the slices in his skin, noting they were ragged and raw as if they'd never been treated. Some were even still bleeding lazily like they'd just been made a short time ago._

_The song ended and changed into one he recognized, The Four Seasons by Vivaldi. This was one of the few songs John asked him to play when the nightmares kept him from sleeping. He smiled slightly at the memory, the corners of his mouth pulling painfully. Moriarty had sliced into Sherlock's lips and he could still taste the copper tang of his own blood._

_"Sherlock, love, how are we feeling?" John's voice came from the other room. Sherlock twisted his head to the doorway, hearing approaching footsteps. He groaned hopefully at John, his lips too painful to speak. But when the doctor picked up a box cutter, Sherlock felt his world crumble._

_"J-John?" Sherlock forced through his broken lips. "What... are you doing?"_

_"I thought it was obvious, Sherlock dear," John replied, a malicious smirk crossing his face. "I'm getting to know you and all the lovely noises you can make." John moved to the edge of the bed, running his hand over Sherlock's back possessively. The detective screamed at the pain, the wounds in his back stinging. As he saw the box cutter descend in the mirror, he pulled in another breath to scream again. And kept screaming until he was hoarse._

"Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up!" John exclaimed, shaking his friend's shoulders. He'd been frightened awake by Sherlock's terrified screams. Sherlock's eyes finally opened and he lurched off the bed, his hands raised against John.

"Don't..." Sherlock whimpered, the nightmare still clear in his mind. "Don't cut me again, John. Please." John got out of the bed, moving towards Sherlock until he saw stark fear in the detective's eyes. He stopped and held up his hands, showing he wasn't holding any sort of weapon.

"Sherlock, I didn't hurt you," John said softly, his voice even and calm. "You were having a nightmare. Whatever you saw wasn't real." His heart broke as he watched Sherlock back himself into a corner, his eyes wide and panicked. The music still pumped through the speakers, an annoying counterpoint to their conversation.

Remembering how Sherlock had relaxed from his singing, John moved back and sat down on the bed. He sang loud enough to drown out the sound of the music, praying it brought Sherlock back from wherever his mind had sent him. As he sang, the music pumped in through the speakers stopped and only John's voice rang through the room.

Slowly, the fear left Sherlock's eyes and he focused on John again. Uncurling from the floor, Sherlock moved back to the bed to sit next to John. He took John's hand and the doctor stopped singing, squeezing Sherlock's hand.

"You back from wherever your nightmare sent you?" John asked gently, cupping Sherlock's chin and turning the other man's face towards his.

"Yes, thank you John," Sherlock replied, shivering at the memory. "I was dreaming that you were the one holding me at the flat. Cutting me with the box cutters."

Sherlock hunched in on himself at that admission, expecting John to get angry at him. He jumped when he felt John's arm settle lightly across his shoulders, pulling him into John's side.

"It's all right," John said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's temple. "I'll never hurt you, Sherlock. Just remember that next time you have a nightmare. Did you hear the music playing over the speakers?"

"I did," Sherlock replied, shuddering. "It was what Moriarty played at the flat when he was torturing me. I think my subconscious combined that music with your song and created my nightmare."

"I'm sorry," John said, guilt threading through his voice. "I won't sing it again, then. I don't want you to have another nightmare like that." Sherlock looked into John's eyes and shook his head.

"No, I enjoyed that song. And your voice," Sherlock said. "Don't let Moriarty take that from us."

"I will take everything from you," Moriarty's voice hissed over the speaker. "I am your judge, jury, and executioner, dearest Sherlock. I want you to suffer for the choices you've made, what you've become. For what you've given up."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock snapped. "I am still the same person I always was and I've given up nothing."

"You've lost your edge, love," Moriarty said fondly. "Playing the game with you is boring now. _You've_ become boring, Sherlock. Choosing sentiment and emotions over the cold sense of logic. Choosing to fall in love." Moriarty's voice changed as he spoke, turning malicious and cold.

"John has given me many valuable insights," Sherlock said, squeezing the doctor's hand. "Without him, several of my cases would have gone on a lot longer. He is invaluable to my work."

"No, no he isn't," Moriarty cooed. "All you've ever needed was you. And me, of course. How else would you prove your brilliance except against me?"

"He's never needed you for that," John snapped, glaring at the speaker above the door. "Sherlock is perfectly capable of proving his brilliance himself."

"John, shut up!" Moriarty snapped, his voice high-pitched. "I wasn't talking to you. You're only here because you took something that was mine."

"I was never yours," Sherlock declared. "And I never will be. You've lost, even now Moriarty."

"No, I haven't," Moriarty singsonged. "By the way, I'm going to be refilling your water and emptying your toilet. My little pet Gary will have a sniper rifle trained on one of you when I walk in. Though you won't know who he's targeting. If you both would like to stay alive, I'd recommend staying against the far wall facing it. Until we meet again, Sherlock love."

The speaker clicked into silence again and John ground his teeth. He felt Sherlock shaking beside him and looked over at the detective. The sheer anger on his face heartened John. At least he wasn't getting pulled into his memories again.

"Hey, look at me," John whispered. He waited until Sherlock met his eyes then continued, "While we're alive, we have a chance. We'll get out of here, Sherlock."

"I hope so," Sherlock replied, just as quietly. "Though this may be the one trap I can't get out of."


	15. Listen

"Sherlock, listen," John said urgently, gently shaking the sleeping detective next to him. Sherlock groaned quietly and kept his eyes closed. He turned his head towards the door though, showing he'd heard John. Small scraping sounds were coming from the door. John scrambled out of the bed and moved to the door as quietly as he could.

"Think it's Moriarty?" John asked.

"It is possible," Sherlock allowed. "But I would expect him to tell us he was coming in. And to taunt us with the fact that one of us was in the sights of his pet sniper."

"So probably not Moriarty then," John nodded, moving to the side of the door. If anyone came through, he was prepared to tackle the person and then get Sherlock and himself out of this room. They'd been here for almost three weeks now and the lack of any distractions was driving both of them crazy.

The scraping sounds stopped and Sherlock allowed his mind to wander. He'd been doing that more and more the longer they stayed here. Though, luckily, he was being dragged down into his nightmares less often. They'd been trying to keep each other occupied by playing games, many of which Sherlock excelled at.

The one game that John could beat him at was naming of colors. They'd start with the letter A, switching off and heading through the alphabet. Sherlock kept the basic colors in his mind palace but deleted all the extraneous ones unless they had something to do with a case. But John had a seemingly inexhaustible supply of names of colors. Though the one letter neither had been able to come up with a color for was X.

Sherlock tried to change the game quickly whenever they got into the color game. His favorite game was street names in London. They would say a street name and the other had to determine what the closest major landmark to the street was. Sherlock almost always won this game, with his map of London saved carefully in his mind palace.

They'd also taken to spending most of their time on the bed conserving their energy. Sherlock was better able to deal with the lack of food than John, but hunger was getting to him slowly. John laid with his hand clenched over his stomach, trying to stifle the grumbling. When the hunger consumed both of them, their stomachs aching, they would curl into each other and hold on tightly. They couldn't even drink enough water to ease the emptiness they felt because it had to last until Moriarty decided to give them more.

A sudden quiet sound from John brought Sherlock out of his reverie. He opened his eyes to stare at the doctor and saw that John was motioning for Sherlock to get up out of the bed. The detective did so and moved to stand near John on the other side of the doorframe.

"They've started scraping again," John murmured almost soundlessly. "It sounds like whoever is out there is trying to pick the locks. I heard the first one turn a few minutes ago."

"Do you think it's someone trying to rescue us?" Sherlock whispered back, his eyes lighting with excitement. If it was, he would be willing to give that person a great deal for getting them out of this room. He had, by now, memorized every divot, scrape, crack, and imperfection in the walls, ceiling and floor. He knew exactly how big the room was and how many steps it took to pace. He knew the size of the windows and that pounding on them didn't even crack them. John knew all this as well since Sherlock often talked out loud as he studied the room.

"I can only hope," John said. "But in case it isn't, we need to be ready to take them out and run. Are you feeling up to it?"

"I would dance in order to get out of here," Sherlock replied dryly, his lips quirking in a stilted smile.

"I may take you up on that later," John promised, reaching out quickly and brushing his fingers over the back of Sherlock's hand. The second deadbolt clicked then and John braced himself for the third one. The person on the other side was getting faster at unlocking the bolts. A wave of dizziness overtook John as he waited and he had to lean into the wall to catch his breath. The lack of food was definitely getting to him.

The final bolt clicked and John pushed himself upright again, his breathing deep and even. He knew exactly what he was going to do as soon as whoever was on the other side of the door walked through. Thanks to his military training, John could often win in a fight against larger and more heavily muscled people.

The door slowly creaked open, a hand on the edge pushing it in. As soon as it was open enough for a body to slip through, John gripped the wrist and spun the person, trapping their arm behind their back.

"Stop! I'm here to help," Greg Lestrade's voice hissed into the room. John released him immediately and heaved a sigh of relief. Sherlock moved from behind the door and studied Greg, carefully assessing him.

"You look tired," Sherlock finally said. "You've only been sleeping about three hours a night. Also subsisting on coffee and microwaved meals."

"Well, I've been looking for you two, you git," Greg replied, his eyes darting around the room. "I found out you guys were missing about four hours after you were taken. The nurse came into your room at shift change and found it empty. When she questioned the nurse from the previous shift, she explained a man had come to see you claiming to be John's grandfather and she hadn't checked on you since."

"I'm glad it didn't take days to find out we were missing," John said, relief making his voice breathy. "The man who kidnapped us was a professional, wearing some sort of disguise. He drugged us so quickly that there was no struggle."

"I saw that," Greg replied, motioning them towards the door. "But I think further explanations can wait until we're away from here, don't you?" Both Sherlock and John nodded eagerly, hurrying after the DI and out to his car. They all climbed in and Greg drove away, heading towards New Scotland Yard.

"Much as I appreciate the rescue," John said, laughing softly. "I would appreciate a meal even more. Can we stop somewhere and get something to eat before we go to the station? We haven't eaten in almost three weeks."

"Of course. You guys weren't allowed any food?" Greg asked, staring at them in his rearview mirror. "I'm surprised you both are still as functional as you are."

"It's been kind of hit and miss to be honest," John admitted, staring at Sherlock. The detective was looking out the window as if he couldn't quite believe they were still out. He had a glassy look in his eyes that told John he was far away from where they were sitting. "It's been the hardest on Sherlock. He had barely had any time to process that he was away from Moriarty the first time when we were taken again."

"I can understand that. I was wondering why he was being so quiet," Greg said softly, worry in his eyes.

"I just hope he has more time to recover before Moriarty makes his next move," John said darkly, wrapping an arm over Sherlock's shoulders. "He's never been one to sit idle."


	16. Tender

Resting comfortably high up in the rafters, Moriarty watched as Greg Lestrade rescued John and Sherlock. He had to hold his hand over his mouth to silence the giggles that kept threatening to escape. It wouldn't do for them to discover him up here. To find out that he was the architect of their "rescue". It was so simple.

Give enough time for John's phone to die so that it could no longer be traced and he could shut down the device that kept the signal bouncing around. Then wait while Lestrade grew ever more frantic and sleep-deprived. When the DI was ready to grasp at any hope, any possible tidbit of information that came his way, call in an anonymous tip. Just the address so that the call couldn't be traced. Then just sit back and wait until the show started.

It only took about 20 minutes for Lestrade to show up. Moriarty was rather surprised and impressed that the man had come alone. Though he supposed the DI didn't want to scramble a massive team if the lead turned out to be nothing. Watching Lestrade pick the locks was almost more entertaining than setting this whole thing up. He was a fast learner and had the door open quickly.

Watching Lestrade usher John and Sherlock out, Moriarty allowed an almost tender look to cross his face. Whatever else happened, he truly believed he and Sherlock were connected. If with nothing else, at least with their intellects and their first forays into what would eventually become their lives. Moriarty didn't waste his breath on a possessive growl as he saw John wrap an arm around Sherlock's waist to help him into the car. He just bit his lip and promised himself that he would have some fun with the doctor before killing him slowly.

Once the DI's car drove away, Moriarty climbed out of the rafters and wandered into the room Sherlock and John had been in for the last three weeks. He fancied he could almost _feel_ the desperation and sorrow in the room. Knowing how long it took someone to die from starvation and watching it were two very different things. And these two were so stoic about it. Never a scream, never a yell, never a whimper. It was _boring_ which was why Moriarty had decided to free them in the first place.

Walking out of the room, Moriarty grabbed his phone and pondered what his next move would be. He doubted he'd be able to kidnap them from the hospital again; John would be wary of that. And he had no doubt Lestrade would put in place security teams to watch the doctor and the detective every moment they weren't home. An idea crossed his mind and he grinned ferally.

Gary, you feeling up for some planning? -JM

Sure, boss. What did you have in mind? - GW

I want you to find a perch near Sherlock's home. You have to be able to see the chair John sits in through the window. Then be ready. - JM

Planning on a little assassination, boss? - GW

Yes, yes I am. I want Sherlock and John is getting in my way. And to burn the heart of Sherlock, I simply need to destroy the physical manifestation of it. - JM

All right. I'll text you once I've found a spot. - GW

Moriarty put his phone away and decided to amend his earlier plan of making John suffer a lingering death. John didn't matter anymore, except for the ways he could be used against Sherlock. All that mattered now was the arrogant detective who thought he could outsmart Jim Moriarty.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Greg drove to a small diner near the hospital and left John and Sherlock in the back while he went in to order. He vaguely remembered some training he'd gotten a long time ago saying that the two men shouldn't eat anything solid since they'd been starved for so long. Greg ordered two bowls of beef broth and a sandwich that he could eat in the car. Sherlock had been right: he'd been living on crappy microwaved food for about 2 weeks now and something different sounded wonderful.

When his order was ready, Greg carried it back out to the car and handed the bowls of broth to John. He didn't want Sherlock to start gulping down the soup and make himself sick. Chances were, John would know how fast and how much they could eat, safely.

"Take it slow," Greg advised, turning around in his seat to stare at the two behind him. "You haven't eaten anything in a long time. You don't want to get sick."

John nodded and took a small sip of the broth before coaxing Sherlock to do the same. They ate slowly as Greg drove back to the hospital and the DI could see a definite difference in both men. He jumped a bit when Sherlock spoke suddenly behind him.

"I don't want to go back to the hospital," the detective declared. "We are both fine. We just need some time to recover from this."

"You're going to the hospital if I have to drag you in there myself," Greg threatened, glaring at Sherlock in the rearview mirror. He parked in the ambulance unloading area, knowing that neither John nor Sherlock would be up to much walking.

"He's right, Sherlock," John said, rubbing a hand over Sherlock's arm. "We have to be checked out, at least. We won't stay long, I promise."

Sherlock looked at John for several long moments then nodded, a resigned sigh escaping his lips. John gave him a quick kiss on the forehead and helped Sherlock out of the car. Greg hovered close as they walked into the hospital, making sure neither man fell.

The visit went quickly, the doctor trying to keep them in the hospital overnight. John was having none of it, though, falling back on his expertise as a doctor. He knew what they needed to do to recover from the starvation and what not to do. Finally, John and Sherlock signed out of the hospital and were driven to their flat by Greg.

"If you could do some shopping for us, it would be tremendously helpful," John said to Greg once he and Sherlock had made their laborious way up the stairs. Greg nodded and made a quick trip to Tesco once he had settled John and Sherlock. Carrying the grocery bags back upstairs, he paused for a minute in confusion as he saw what looked like a sniper's sight on John's chest.

The doctor had fallen asleep in his chair, Sherlock across from him just as asleep. The dot disappeared almost as soon as Greg saw it. Shaking his head, he carried the bags into the kitchen and put away the cold items. Exhaustion was making him see things, he concluded. Leaving a short note for John to call him for anything they needed, Greg left the two men to catch up on their sleep.

As he closed the door, Greg didn't see the sniper's sight land on John's chest again. It hovered there for several moments, bouncing around. Then it disappeared again.


	17. Algebra

Got the place, boss. - GW

Excellent! Are dear Sherlock and John home yet? - JM

Yes. Their cop friend brought them back and left a few minutes ago. - GW

Can you see John right now? - JM

Yes. He's asleep in his armchair. Easy shot if you want me to take it. - GW

Only if Sherlock can see and he's in no danger of getting hurt. - JM

I've done the math, boss. Sherlock can be just about anywhere in that flat and I won't hit him. Though he's asleep now. - GW

You know, I've never enjoyed math. Especially algebra. But wait until my dear wakes up. I want him to see his heart die. - JM

Whatever, boss. Will text you when it's done. - GW

Moriarty put his phone away and looked around the small but elegant flat he'd been using as a home base. It was tastefully appointed in creams and blues, colors that Moriarty found soothing. He also had some of his favorite pieces of art scattered around the place. It was the perfect place to bring Sherlock to finish the job of burning him.

"I'll see you soon, my love," Moriarty purred to the empty room. "You'll stop fighting and become mine." The silence of the flat was filled with a high-pitched, insane laughter.

\---------------------------------------------------------

John gradually came back to consciousness, aware of a warm weight on his lap and chest while something soft brushed over his face. He cracked his dark blue eyes open to meet Sherlock's silvery blue ones and smiled. This felt like coming home.

"Sherlock," John murmured, bringing his arms up to wrap securely around the detective in his lap. "I could get used to waking up like this."

Sherlock continued to slowly pepper John's face with light kisses before replying, "As could I, John. I never really... thanked you. For what... you did. Being there..... for me. When I left."

"You don't have to thank me," John protested, cupping Sherlock's face and staring into his eyes. "I will always be there when you need me. I'm not going anywhere."

"Still, thank you," Sherlock said. He leaned forward, his quicksilver eyes never leaving John's. Releasing an almost silent breath, Sherlock fitted his lips over John's in a gentle kiss that spoke of gratitude and love. John relaxed into the kiss, one hand sliding from Sherlock's cheek to the back of his neck, playing with the silky curls that feathered over the detective's collar.

"You're welcome, Sherlock," John said against his lips. He leaned in for another languid kiss, learning the taste of Sherlock. Sherlock's mouth opened for John's tongue and his own rolled against it. They explored each other's mouth slowly, licking over lips and teeth.

Sherlock discovered that John tasted like tea and oranges, something tangy and spicy and altogether John. It was better than any high he'd ever chased and Sherlock shifted deeper into John's lap, trying to get more of it. More of John and he could tell he was already hopelessly addicted.

As John licked his way around Sherlock's mouth, he discovered that the detective tasted like mint and ice and something indefinably sweet. It was better than the desserts he'd used to crave as a child. John knew he would gladly spend the rest of his life chasing that flavor and trying to figure it out. Then it hit him.

"Peppermints?" John panted, chucking a bit. "Is that how you're able to go so long without eating and not collapse? You're always eating candy?"

"I like the taste," Sherlock said dismissively, though a smile danced at the corners of his mouth. "And I've found that some sugar aids in my deductions."

"Just when I think I've got you figured out, you madman," John said affectionately, rubbing a thumb over the arch of Sherlock's cheekbone.

"And I you, John "I'm not gay" Watson," Sherlock replied, the bite in his voice masking his confusion and annoyance. Or so he thought.

"And that is true," John nodded, pressing his fingertips into the tense muscles at Sherlock's neck. "But you seem to have assumed I was completely straight. I'm not, Sherlock, and I'm surprised you didn't deduce that."

"You're bisexual?" Sherlock breathed, his face etched with surprise. "Then why.... why did you deny you were asking me out at Angelo's?"

"You have to admit, you shut me down pretty hard," John replied wryly. "And when I thought you were completely uninterested, I wanted to get past it and be friends. Also, most of the reason I fought against people's insinuations. I didn't want that to disrupt our friendship. And what happened to Mr. "I'm married to my work" Holmes?"

"You've become an integral part of my work, John," Sherlock replied seriously. "As well as my life. I not only need you here but I want you here as well. Somehow, I don't think the work will mind."

"As long as you're sure," John said mock doubtfully, pulling a long face. "Wouldn't want to annoy the work."

They sat in silence for a few seconds, struggling to contain their mirth, before John's tenor laugh joined Sherlock's baritone one in echoing around the flat. Impulsively, John hugged Sherlock to him and buried his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck.

"I love you," John whispered against Sherlock's skin. "I didn't want to say it where Moriarty could hear but I do. These last few weeks have show me how much you mean to me."

"Ugh, tedious," Sherlock intoned, eyeing John though his lips quirked into a smile. "Must we get all sentimental, John?"

"Humor me," John replied, winking. "I'm only human, after all."

"Oh, very well," Sherlock said sardonically before a serious look slid onto his face. "During the three years I was gone, I realized how much I enjoyed your company. How much you meant to me as a friend. I pushed everything else away because I valued our friendship and didn't want to risk losing it. But then I saw Moriarty shoot you and I couldn't not tell you exactly what you mean to me. I love you, John, and I want you to be by my side always."

John's mouth fell open in surprise at the simple but heartfelt declaration. He lost himself in Sherlock's eyes for several timeless moments and smiled. Instead of speaking, John let a kiss speak for him.

Capturing Sherlock's lips again, John poured all of his love and affection into the kiss. His lips moved gently against Sherlock's as his promise to stay was spoken by a possessive hand cupping the nape of Sherlock's neck and holding him close. John traced Sherlock's bottom lip with his tongue before licking at the seam of Sherlock's mouth. When his lips parted on a soft groan, John's tongue slipped inside and lazily teased Sherlock's.

Feeling John's love and promise with his whole body, Sherlock threw himself into the kiss. He gave everything of himself, a gift accepted and returned. Wanting more contact between them, Sherlock slid his hand down to the hem of John's shirt and underneath. He rested his hand on John's stomach, the fingers splayed out, just feeling the other man breathe.

They sat together for several minutes, mouths moving against each other and delighting in the touch of skin on skin. Both were content to kiss slowly, languorously, the desire in both of them a banked fire. They had time now. Time to explore without rush, letting the heat build. Finally, John pulled back from their kisses to yawn hugely. He smiled tiredly at Sherlock, who chuckled.

"Sleep John," Sherlock said softly, tracing a light finger over John's lips. As the detective moved to stand, John gripped his wrist and shifted Sherlock to a more comfortable position. As well as he could while sitting on the armchair with Sherlock in his lap.

"Stay?" John asked, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's temple. "I've gotten used to you close and you should sleep too."

Sherlock resisted for a moment then melted bonelessly against John. They moved so that Sherlock's head was tucked into John's shoulder and John's face was pressed to Sherlock's glossy curls. He breathed in Sherlock's scent, so very similar to the taste of his skin.

"Good night, love," John murmured before falling asleep. Sherlock hummed in pleased response and fell asleep comforted by the sounds of John's even breathing. This would be the first night he hadn't had a nightmare since Lestrade and John rescued him from Moriarty's flat.

Throughout the whole time, neither man noticed the little red dot that danced impatiently on Sherlock's back. The sniper sight traced random patterns and letters, Gary even spelling out words on Sherlock's back. When John finally fell asleep, the red dot focused on his forehead. Even in the position the detective and the doctor were reclining in, Gary was confident he could make the shot without even harming Sherlock.

Gary smiled to himself before tightening his finger on the trigger. He took a deep breath and released it, his eyes fixed on the two men before him through his scope. But before his finger could pull back the last hairsbreadth, Gary saw that Sherlock had fallen asleep against John.

Releasing the trigger, Gary sighed in disappointment. And here he thought he'd be able to spend the night in his own flat. Turning the sight off, Gary took a few moments to eat a cold sandwich and swallow a few mouthfuls of water. He then refocused through his scope, intent on completing his job to Moriarty's specifications as soon as he could.


	18. Poison

When John woke up again, Sherlock was still a very warm weight in his lap. A nearly full moon shone in through the window, telling him it was still the middle of the night. John smiled down at the sleeping detective and marvelled at the heat. It felt like Sherlock had a space heater underneath his skin or something. John trailed his finger lightly over Sherlock's cheek before leaning down and placing a kiss on his forehead. He really didn't want to wake the man, but he felt like he was going to explode if he didn't make it to the bathroom.

"Sherlock," John murmured against Sherlock's skin. "I need you to wake up for me." Sherlock cracked his eyes open and glared up at John.

"Comfortable," Sherlock replied petulantly. The detective snuggled closer to John, his fingers curling into John's shirt.

"I need to get up," John said, still brushing a finger over Sherlock's cheek. "And we can move to the bed. If I sleep here much longer, I'm going to be extremely stiff in the morning." Grumbling slightly, Sherlock stood from the chair and held out a hand to help John up. John smiled his thanks and stretched before walking over to Sherlock's bedroom.

"Go lay down and I'll meet you in a minute," John said, opening the door. As Sherlock walked by him, John snagged his wrist and pulled him down for a quick kiss. Sherlock smiled then laid down on the bed. John hurried to their bathroom, finished quickly and stopped in the doorway as he took in Sherlock asleep on the bed.

The detective had stretched out across the bed, one hand resting near his cheek. Sherlock looked relaxed and vulnerable asleep, far younger than he was. John smiled fondly, resting his hip against the doorframe.

"You drive me insane sometimes, love," John said softly before moving to the bed and fitting himself around Sherlock. They'd discovered, in that room with the tiny bed, that they liked sleeping wrapped around each other. John often wondered if Sherlock had gotten any affectionate touches when he was younger since he seemed to crave them now. He had no problem with it at all because John was always tactile when in a relationship. He liked the closeness that touching engendered.

"Glad you're back," Sherlock muttered, pillowing his head on John's shoulder.

"Me too. Sleep Sherlock," John replied, pressing a kiss to the detective's forehead. With a small huff, Sherlock did and John smiled. They fell asleep again, the stars illuminating their faces with a clear, white light.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------

In the flat across the street, Gary sighed and sat up to start breaking down his rifle. Since the doctor and the detective had left the living room, he no longer had a shot. He'd already checked the surrounding buildings and the only place he could shoot from was this flat. Once he'd dismantled and safely stored his rifle, Gary pulled out his phone to text Moriarty. The criminal had been very specific: alert him to any changes to their plan immediately, no matter the time.

Boss, Sherlock and John have left the living room and gone to the bedroom. I no longer have a shot and I'm leaving for the night. Will set up again tomorrow. - GW

The reply took a while to get back to his phone and Gary was already almost back to his flat when he received it.

Very well. Text me when you go back so I can be ready to come and take Sherlock. - JM

Will do, boss. - GW

When he got upstairs, Gary lovingly put his riflecase away and slipped into bed. Today had been a long day and dealing with Moriarty, even in the smallest of instances, always tired him. The man was like a child, changing his mind in an instant. Though he paid well, Gary was seriously considering running and changing his identity. He didn't like working for people who were quite so vociferously insane. You never knew when they might turn on you. Already, plans tumbled through his mind to make a getaway. Though he'd wait to see what Moriarty did next.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Jim Moriarty was bored and tired. He couldn't sleep, though, and merely paced the flat. Every once in a while, his fingers would trace a corner or a curve of this sculpture or that piece of furniture. His mind kept whirling in a thousand directions, making plans and discarding them without a second thought.

An outside observer would see a myriad of expressions crossing Moriarty's face: glee, sorrow, joy, mischief, anger, hatred, despair, happiness. They came and went in rapid succession and one would conclude that he was insane. Or that he had dissociative identity disorder. The man never noticed his expressions, nor how quickly they changed. He was completely wrapped up in his contemplation of Sherlock.

His pacing brought him to a corner where an ornate box sat on a desk. The box was made from carved wood and had simple geometric designs inlaid in a lighter colored wood on it. Moriarty caressed it lightly with his fingers before opening the lid. Two pills sat inside: a white powder with black flecks sat in clear gelatin capsules. These were all that remained of the pills he'd had made all those years ago in his opening moves against Sherlock. The poison the cabby had used was something Moriarty had come up with not long after he'd killed Carl Powers.

"Everything ends where it begins, love," Moriarty whispered to the pills, imagining Sherlock's face. "My first act to draw your attention shall be my last. And you will die mine."


	19. Obsession 2

Sherlock woke as the sun slanted across his face. He turned his head to stare down at the comforting weight of John sprawled across his chest. The doctor had plastered himself to Sherlock's side while they were sleeping and was lying half across the detective now. Sherlock gently brushed his fingers over John's forehead, sliding a few strands of hair off his skin. He'd had no nightmares after they'd moved in here and he was fairly certain it was because of John's presence in his familiar room.

"You are still brilliant as a conductor of light," Sherlock whispered to the sleeping man. "You burn all the fears and memories away."

John shifted as Sherlock spoke, his eyes opening slowly. He smiled at the detective and leaned forward to press a light kiss to his lips.

"Morning," John mumbled against Sherlock's lips. "How did you sleep, love?"

"Soundly," Sherlock replied, satisfaction painting his voice. "I think you need to stay with me every night from now on. No more sleeping upstairs."

"I think I can do that," John smiled, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. "This is assuming, of course, that you actually _sleep_."

"I'm coming to understand the appeal of it," Sherlock admitted archly. "Besides, with you here, I have someone to study when I can't fall asleep."

"Glad to be of some assistance," John said wryly. He untangled himself from Sherlock and sat up, stretching his arms above his head until his back popped. "Though I am really glad to be back here and not trapped in that little room. Why is Moriarty so obsessed with you, anyway?"

"I believe it's because of Carl Powers," Sherlock said softly after a long pause. He stared up at the ceiling as he spoke, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "I was the only one who believed Carl had been murdered. And I think Moriarty is obsessed with my intelligence. I'm one of the few people who can keep up with him or outdo him."

"He wants to _own_ you," John commented, turning to stare at Sherlock. "I think he's clinically insane, listening to him talk. And that makes him more dangerous than ever. Those three years don't seem to sit easy on him."

"I know, John. But I think we can deal with him," Sherlock said. He stood from the bed as well, moving into the kitchen to start water boiling for tea. John followed him, standing in the doorway with his arms folded. He watched Sherlock move around the kitchen, surprised that the detective was actually making tea and getting breakfast ready. John was still standing in the doorway when the toast popped up from the toaster and Sherlock placed the slices on a plate. He spread butter and jam on them, turning to John to hand him the plate when a shot rang out.

The tinkling sound of shattered glass hitting wood accompanied John's fall to the ground, hand clutching his left shoulder. The plate shattered on the floor as Sherlock dropped it, hurrying to John's side. His mind flashed back to the first time Moriarty shot John and fear jolted through him.

"John! John!" Sherlock screamed as he caught John. "Come on, stay with me." He let John lay on the floor, running to grab his phone and call the paramedics. As soon as the call was done, he ran back and pressed his hands to the wound that was still gushing blood. He could only pray and wait for the sirens to get to the flat.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Gary smiled at a job well done as he watched John Watson fall. The shot had gone a little high, a freak gust of wind whipping through the street as he fired. But he was fairly certain the shot was going to be a fatal one. He pulled out his phone as Sherlock was racing for his, not even bothering to break down his rifle.

Took the shot. John Watson is down and most likely going to die. You have your opening to take Sherlock. - GW

Excellent! Make yourself scarce and stay near your phone. I will contact you if I need you again. - JM

Gary put his phone away and broke down the rifle quickly. He'd clean it once he got back to his flat. Shouldering the bag the rifle was packed in, he made his way out of the flat and onto the street as the first sirens sounded a couple blocks over. He walked to the next street and hailed a cab, careful to keep a pleasant expression on his face. He was going to be paid well for this day's work.

He took out his rifle and cleaned it carefully once he was in the safety of his flat. The routine was soothing and always acted as the counter to the high he experienced whenever he fired at a target. Once he was finished with that, Gary checked his bank balance and smiled at the large deposit Moriarty had given him. Enough to escape London if he needed to. Gary had no intentions of staying, now that his primary purpose had been served.

He packed quickly, no personal effects littering the flat. He thought he might try exploring America, knowing that wealthy people always needed a bodyguard. And most would overlook the dishonorable discharge. He headed to the airport, intent on getting out of London as quickly as possible. Along the way, he threw his phone into a trash can. Moriarty had no way of tracing him now.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

Moriarty was waiting impatiently for the text from Gary ever since the man had texted him at dawn saying he was in place again. He paced the flat, his eyes skipping frantically over everything there. He had what he wanted in place for Sherlock, the ties on the bed unbreakable. He'd tested them on himself and was certain there was no way for Sherlock to slip out of them. The walls were thick and sturdy; no music would betray him this time.

Finally unable to wait any longer, Moriarty threw on his coat and headed outside. He walked briskly to Baker Street, lingering in the cafe nearby. He ordered a cup of coffee and sat down, letting it steam untouched in front of him.

When Moriarty heard the telltale pop of a silenced rifle, he grinned ferally and stood. The coffee remained behind as his phone buzzed, telling him he could get Sherlock now. Moriarty went into 221, closing the door quietly behind him. He snuck upstairs, smothering high-pitched giggles with his hand. The moment was _finally_ here, Sherlock would be his. He opened the door to the detective's flat and took in the sight of the man cradling John's body. The doctor still breathed but not for long, judging by the amount of blood on the floor.

Moriarty knew he'd have to surprise Sherlock to take him, knew he would have to knock the taller man out. He crept forward, still trying to stifle his laughter. This was the moment he'd been waiting for, the moment he'd obsessed over for the past three years. His time to defeat the infuriating detective was now and he was going to savor it.


	20. Disappear

Gary stared at the lighted boards at Heathrow airport. The ticket he'd bought to JFK in New York was clutched in his hand, the time of his flight highlighted in dark ink. 4:45 pm was when the flight was scheduled to leave and he could see the plane taxi into the terminal. Only another half hour and he would be free. He could disappear into America and Moriarty would never be able to find him.

Thinking of his bank balance, Gary let out a silent chuckle. Moriarty definitely paid well. If the man wasn't so obviously insane, Gary wouldn't have minded continuing to work for him. After all, Moriarty merely asked him to do things he was good at and paid for it. The flood of passengers walked through the gates and into the airport, dissolving into the mass of humanity.

About 10 minutes later, the call for boarding came. Gary was one of the first in line, no luggage with him since his bag had been checked. He showed his passport to the attendant and walked down the tunnel to the plane. His seat was near the back and Gary settled into it with a sigh. He enjoyed flying and looked forward to the adventure of going to a new place. As soon as the plane was filled, the pilots taxied away. Greg finally relaxed; there was no way Moriarty could touch him now.

\--------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock could only see the bright red of the blood leaking from John's shoulder. He thanked whatever forces there were that the shot had gone high. John was still alive, his face screwed up in pain. Sherlock pressed his hands against the wound, panting in fear.

"Come on, John, you can't leave me now," Sherlock begged the supine man. "You've survived other gunshots. You can survive this one too."

"Sh... Sh... lock," John stuttered, his breath coming in hoarse gasps. "Don't.... d... don't go."

"I'm not going anywhere, I'm still here," Sherlock whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to John's forehead. One hand came up and stroked through John's hair, both men heedless of the blood that now covered the sandy strands. He heard the sirens start distantly and hoped they got here in time.

Blood continued to flow from the wound, the red a spreading pool around John. Sherlock looked around frantically but there was nothing in reach to help staunch the blood. He was so panicked that he didn't hear Moriarty walking up behind him. Though the madman was walking almost completely silently.

John saw him, though, his eyes widening as he tried to tell Sherlock. The doctor's mouth moved slowly, the words forming but no sound coming out. He watched a huge grin cross Moriarty's face at his helplessness, something the madman seemed to delight in. John groaned and moved his arm, trying to do something, _anything_ , to get Sherlock to turn and see.

"Sh... lo.... turn....," John managed to gasp out, his hand finally connecting with Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock grasped his hand but did turn, following the breathless order. He growled when he saw Moriarty in the flat but still didn't move. He couldn't remove his hand from the wound; there was a good chance John would bleed out before help arrived if he did.

"I've been waiting, Sherlock dear," Moriarty cooed as he stalked forward. The madman had nothing in his hands, as if he expected to subdue Sherlock with his words alone. "Your doctor is dying and there's nothing you can do about it. Time to come with me."

John lost the strength he'd been able to muster and his hand fell out of Sherlock's. It hit the floor with a hard thump and John gasped. He could feel the blankness of unconsciousness creeping up, though John fought it as hard as he could. He couldn't leave Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock, alone to deal with Moriarty. But the loss of blood was wearing heavily on the stalwart doctor and finally he couldn't fight it anymore. Darkness rose up and claimed him, Sherlock's worried face the last thing John saw.

Sherlock looked away from Moriarty, worry etching his face as John passed out. He'd taken to carrying John's gun around when the doctor was asleep and had snuck upstairs to get it this morning. Hoping that John would live if he let go, Sherlock stood. He pulled the gun out of the back of his jeans and levelled it at Moriarty.

"What's to stop me from killing you, right now?" Sherlock asked, determination keeping his voice even. The madman stopped walking towards him, raising his hands towards Sherlock. "You've been a thorn in my side for far too long."

"But where would you be without me, love?" Moriarty said, his voice rising. "You are _nothing_ without someone who's on your level. You'd be lost without me."

Sherlock shook his head, his finger squeezing on the trigger. He'd spared Moriarty once before, though killing him then would have resulted in his and John's deaths. Now, it was simple. Just a little more pressure and Sherlock would have shot an intruder in his home. Moriarty would be gone from their life and he and John could start healing.

"I would be free without you," Sherlock countered. He tilted his head, the sirens nearly outside the door. He hoped that whatever Moriarty had planned, he had lost the time to do it in. Moriarty turned to the chairs, settling himself in Sherlock's armchair. The detective followed him with the gun, keeping it trained on the other man's midsection.

"You keep trying to kill John," Sherlock continued. "Why? What do you have against him?"

"Oh, nothing in particular. It's not about John, love," Moriarty purred, grinning that Sherlock was keeping their conversation going. "It's about you. It's always been about you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes widened as he worked through the implications of that sentence. _He_ was the reason Moriarty was going after John. He was the reason the doctor was lying in a spreading pool of his own blood. Though the slight hiss of breath reassured Sherlock that the doctor was still alive.

"You see it now," Moriarty said triumphantly. "Everything I do, everything I've done, was for you, dearest. You could no more kill me than you could kill yourself."

Sherlock's hand wavered, the gun trembling in the air. He feared Moriarty was right, feared that without someone to call a nemesis, he would lose his edge. The puzzles Moriarty had set for him had been some of the most deliciously complicated ones he'd ever had. Would he become bored after the madman was gone?

Moriarty grinned as he saw Sherlock waver. Every argument was carefully thought out, three years in the making. He knew how Sherlock worked, what made the detective tick. And he knew how to throw a wrench in the middle of the finely-tuned machine Sherlock's mind was. Now the only question was would Sherlock regain his confidence before the paramedics showed up or would he lose everything, leaving Moriarty to pick up the pieces?


	21. Quest

A decisive pounding on the door downstairs interrupted the standoff the two men were in. Sherlock could hear Mrs. Hudson opening the door, her voice shrill as she took in the paramedics. Knowing that he couldn't do anything about Moriarty right now, Sherlock tucked the gun back into his jeans.

"Let them save John," Sherlock whispered before the paramedics burst into the room. He turned back to John, giving the man who reached the supine doctor first all the information he knew. Watching as they stabilized John and did all they could to stop the bleeding, Sherlock felt something within him crystallize into a determined resolve. This was the last time, _the last time_ , Moriarty was ever going to get his hands on John.

"What hospital are you taking him to?" Sherlock asked, his mouth moving on automatic.

"St. Bart's," the taller paramedic replied. Sherlock studied him, deducing that the man had been married for two years and had a newborn daughter at home, to go by the pink bib he had failed to remove from his back pocket. Sherlock nodded and said nothing more as the paramedics carried John out to the ambulance on the stretcher.

Continuing to ignore Moriarty, at least for the moment, Sherlock walked to the window and watched the ambulance pull away, sirens blaring loudly. He heaved a sigh of relief, knowing that whatever else happened, John was away from Moriarty. Turning back to the madman, Sherlock sat down in John's armchair and steepled his fingers. He was momentarily distracted by the scent of John lingering in the chair but focused on Moriarty.

"I have a deal for you," Sherlock began, his voice calm even though his heart was racing.

"I'm listening, love," Moriarty replied, a savage grin forming on his face. He could tell that whatever Sherlock had in mind, he was going to win. The detective was going to be his and Moriarty was willing to negotiate pretty much any terms to have that happen. Sherlock was paramount and he _wanted_.

"You leave John alone. No more attempts on his life," Sherlock said, his quicksilver eyes locked on Moriarty's. "And I come with you. No escaping, no phone, nothing."

Moriarty made a show of considering that, tapping a finger on his chin and narrowing his eyes. Inside, he exulted. This was so much more than he was expecting Sherlock to do. And even if the man was doing it out of love for his precious doctor, Moriarty would still have him. Sherlock would still be his. But it wouldn't do to show eagerness. Oh no. He was going to make Sherlock work for this.

"We tried that before, love, don't you remember?" Moriarty chided him, his voice light. "And that DI rescued you. Greg Lestrade, I believe his name was? What makes you think I'm willing to do that again?"

"You want me," Sherlock spat, his face full of anger and disgust. "You forget I can read you as well as you can me. You want me and you're willing to do anything to have me. And it drives you mad that I care for John. That I love him."

"Love is just chemicals," Moriarty snarled, his face turning savage. "What we have goes much deeper, darling. You're not helping your argument for John's live, you know. I may just kill him because I feel like it."

"But you won't do that," Sherlock said confidently. "You know as soon as you do, you've lost any chance of keeping me. John is my only weakness. He is the only one I'd sacrifice myself for."

"You have a point about that love," Moriarty said thoughtfully. He could see how much the endearments annoyed Sherlock and delighted in using them as often as possible. "So, convince me. Why exactly should I go through with this deal? And why are you? You're the one with the gun after all."

Sherlock sighed and looked away. He couldn't help the exhaustion that crept onto his face, memories of a mirror-lined room echoing with music crossing his mind. He could do this, he _had_ to. For John.

"Because if I do just shoot you, your pet sniper will probably kill John and me," Sherlock replied reasonably. "That was your style three years ago and I'm assuming it hasn't changed. If you take my deal, you get me for as long as you want. I know that's exactly what's been driving you."

Moriarty grinned, deciding that he'd played with the detective long enough. Even if Gary had no orders to kill either man, Moriarty wasn't going to let Sherlock know that. It was so much sweeter to savor Sherlock's resignation, his depression. Even his love for John had a bittersweet flavor, tempered by the fact that Sherlock believed he'd never see the doctor again. Whether he survived or not.

"Fine," Moriarty finally said, his voice smooth and vibrant with dark joy. "Leave the gun, love. You won't need it where we're going."

Sherlock nodded, his chin ending on his chest as his heart broke. He only hoped John could somehow forgive him for this. He stood, echoing Moriarty's movements. Reaching to his back, Sherlock pulled out the gun and laid it gently on John's armchair. He let his fingers sweep across the fabric, more of John's scent released into the air with the movement. Sherlock took a deep breath, fighting for calm, then turned to Moriarty.

"After you," Sherlock said flatly. He gestured to the door and followed as Moriarty walked outside. The only thoughts in the detective's mind now were fervent prayers that John would survive. He would have a place to stay. Sherlock had long ago altered his will to leave everything he had to John. Mycroft would take care of everything and John would live.

Moriarty exulted silently as he led Sherlock outside. He flagged down a cab and pushed Sherlock in ahead of him. After giving his address to the cabby, Moriarty sat with his hand on the detective's leg. His smile grew when Sherlock made no move to shove him off, just sat there frozen. He spent the silent ride trying to decide what he was going to do to Sherlock first. He had time for more finesse now. No box cutters this time around.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

The first thing John thought when he woke up was how much pain he was in. The anaesthetics had worn off and the bullet wound in his shoulder was burning fiercely. His next thought was for Sherlock but when John looked around the room, he didn't see the man anywhere. He was alone in the cream room, machines beeping softly around him.

"Sherlock?" John called hopefully, wondering if his flatmate had gone to get coffee or something. His mind wandered then, wondering what he should call Sherlock now. What they were to each other. Flatmate seemed so... impersonal. They were so much more than that now. Hearing footsteps, John watched the door eagerly, waiting for the moment Sherlock would step through.

"Ah, you're awake," Dr. Hanes said as she walked in. She didn't miss the sadness that flickered across John's face but decided that it had nothing to do with her. "I'm going to skip all the song and dance and tell you exactly what happened, John. You were shot, the wound high in your left shoulder. The bullet actually went through some of the scar tissue from your previous wound. You lost a lot of blood but we were able to repair everything and pull the bullet out. It's going to take a while, but you'll have full use of your arm again."

"Thank you," John said numbly. This was Afghanistan all over again. Though at least he had Sherlock. If the maddening detective would ever show up. "Is there anyone here with me?"

"You came in alone," Dr. Hanes said, a confused look crossing her face. "Is there someone you'd like to call?"

"Yeah, I want to call my... flatmate," John said, stumbling a bit over the word. He didn't want to say anything more, not without talking to Sherlock about it first. "He was in the flat with me when I was shot. Is he ok?"

"We've had no other gunshot wounds come in, so he wasn't shot," the doctor said carefully. She picked up John's chart and looked over it, noting something in it. "Since you're awake, we can move you to a regular room. You'll be able to use the phone there."

John nodded gratefully and held himself back from fidgeting while Dr. Hanes called a nurse to help her move John's bed. He clenched his hands together in impatience, wanting to be alone in a room so he could call Sherlock. The last thing he remembered was the detective's face, staring at... something. There was someone else in the flat with them, John remembered. Someone dangerous.

When John's bed was situated to the doctor's liking, she tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. When John's eyes snapped to hers, Dr. Hanes said, "Are you in any pain right now?"

"Yes, I am," John said, the words forced out because of the burning in his shoulder. "I know I can handle morphine; that's what they gave me last time."

"Very well, I'll order a shot for you," Dr. Hanes said. She left the room, presumably to tell a nurse. John waited until a nurse gave him the shot through his IV and left before grasping for the phone. He dialed Sherlock's number quickly, the pattern of numbers long memorized. As the phone rang, John let a smile cross his face. He'd survived whatever had happened and just wanted to reassure Sherlock.

When the phone rang out to voicemail, John frowned and hung up. He called again, with the same result. A tingle of dread shot through him as a familiar face teased the edges of his memory.

"Oh god," John murmured as his memory came back. "Moriarty was in the flat. That's what I was trying to warn him about. Oh my god."

John tried dialing Sherlock's phone twice more, becoming more and more frantic as each ring sounded in his ear. Finally, he had to give it up as a lost cause. Several possible scenarios came to him, each worse than the last. But one thing John was sure of: Moriarty had Sherlock again. And there was nothing he could do about it from this hospital bed. Once he was free of here, he only had one quest: Get Sherlock back, whatever the cost.


	22. Rescue

Moriarty walked out of the bedroom and closed the door, not bothering to lock it. His prisoner wasn't going anywhere, bound by chains of his own making. That was possibly the most delicious part of the whole thing: Sherlock held himself here, assuming that Moriarty would have Gary kill John if he left. Nevermind the fact that Moriarty hadn't contacted Gary since the man had shot John Watson. There were some things that his dearest Sherlock didn't need to know.

He grinned to himself as he stretched his arm above his head. Using the riding crop today was a lovely nod to Irene Adler, a woman he had put in Sherlock's path, and a fun way to damage the detective without breaking the skin. As long as he was careful, of course. Moriarty was still rather annoyed with Sherlock, the detective mouthing something as he was beaten and not sharing what it was. No matter what he had threatened him with, Sherlock refused to speak other than to scream. Shrugging, Moriarty went about making a light meal. He hummed to himself as he did so, more content than he could remember being in a long time.

Sherlock groaned quietly as he shifted, listening to Moriarty humming that damnable song again. It was the same one that had been playing when Greg rescued him, the only one that Moriarty seemed to care about, and it was driving him crazy. He'd been mouthing John's name again, though the riding crop was not nearly as bad as the box cutters had been. It had been three days since he'd walked away from John with Moriarty.

Groaning again, Sherlock sat up on the bed. Moriarty hadn't bothered tying his arms down, just his legs so that he couldn't squirm away. He studied the whip marks on his arms, legs, and chest dispassionately, knowing that each mark was worth John's life. Though, that was a new and odd feeling for him; usually Sherlock only cared for himself and the Work. Yet another example of John's wonderful uniqueness. Sherlock rolled his eyes as Moriarty hummed louder, the distinctive scent of eggs and bacon wafting in making his mouth water. He hadn't eaten in three days, just gotten enough water to make sure he didn't pass out.

Stretching carefully, Sherlock made sure none of his muscles were locking up or knotting. Granted, John's life was the price of his capture but that didn't mean he wasn't going to keep himself as fit as possible. If he ever got the chance and knew John would be safe...

\------------------------------------------------------

By the third day of his hospital stay, John had snarled so badly at all the nurses and doctors that Mycroft had had to bring in another set and have John moved into a private room. The doctor was frustrated with yet another bullet wound, his third in two months, and the fact that he had no idea what happened after he passed out in the flat. His gun was lying neatly in his chair and the only blood was his by the kitchen, so John could only assume that Sherlock hadn't been injured.

"Where is he?" John muttered for what felt like the hundredth time that day. "What did Moriarty do?"

"We still don't know, John," Greg said sadly, staring at the doctor with compassion in his eyes. "We've swept the flat and there's nothing."

"When did you get here?" John asked, jumping as he turned his head to meet Greg's eyes.

"Just a couple minutes ago," Greg replied, moving to sit down in the chair next to the bed. "The only prints on your gun were yours and Sherlock's. We didn't even find the sniper, just the room he'd fired from. And I don't think we can find Sherlock through his phone this time; it was sitting on the coffee table."

John sighed and looked away, grimacing as his shoulder shot bolts of fire down his arm and chest. It was maddening, being stuck here in the hospital while Sherlock was who-knows-where. Though, when John was being honest with himself, late at night when he couldn't sleep, he had to admit that he wouldn't do a damn bit of good if he were able to find Sherlock right now. He'd lost a lot of blood and his body was stressed almost to the breaking point.

"What do we do now?" John asked, fighting to keep his voice even. No matter that he wanted to break down and scream. "Is there anything you found in the flat? Or the sniper's flat?"

"I'm sorry, John," Greg said softly, patting the other man's hand. "We'll keep at it." He rose then, giving John a smile and walking out of the room. He and his division had a lot of work to do.

John slid down on the bed painfully until he was lying down, staring up at the ceiling and counting the little black spots in the pattern of tiles. He'd wracked his brain over the past three days, replaying those last 10 minutes in his head over and over again. But all he could remember was Moriarty walking towards them with a smug smile, his eyes lighting up as John's blood slowly pumped out of him.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," John whispered to the empty room. "I'll do everything I can to find you. I'll rescue you with my last breath if need be."

\------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock glared at Moriarty as the madman bounced back into the room, a plate of eggs and bacon held securely in his hand. The shorter man sat down on the armchair in the corner, smirking at Sherlock with every bite. He still hummed the annoying song and Sherlock sighed before pointedly looking away.

"What's the matter, love?" Moriarty asked, his voice light with seeming concern. "Are you bored? Shall we switch to something else?"

"Bored? No," Sherlock replied, breaking his silence at last. Maybe if he could keep Moriarty talking, the torture would stop for a while. "What is that song you keep insisting on humming? It's annoying."

"My dear, you should recognize it," Moriarty chided, eating another bite of egg. "It's Bach's Violin Concerto in E Major. Something you most likely heard at some point, if not learned on your own violin."

"Sorry, you were mangling it," Sherlock replied, his voice poisonously serene and calm. "Besides, you were completely off the key and the rhythm. I don't think even Bach himself would have recognized it."

Moriarty put the plate down on the dresser carefully, placing the fork on top. He stood, his face a mask of calm. But his eyes were seething, fury radiating from him. Without a word, the madman left the room, leaving the door open behind him. Sherlock craned his head, surprised and supremely curious as to what was going on. Though, the surprise turned to dread when Moriarty came back in carrying a flail.

"I think it's time to change our toys, don't you?" he asked conversationally, pushing savagely at Sherlock's shoulder until the detective was supine on the bed again. "This time, you're going to tell me what you keep saying, love. You don't get to keep secrets from me."

Moriarty raised his arm above his head, the flail poised for a few seconds, before bringing it down hard on Sherlock's leg. The strips of leather left dark red stripes on his thigh, blood welling from a few places. Sherlock held back the scream, biting his lips closed. Moriarty grinned and moved to the other side of the bed, hitting him again with the flail. This continued up and down Sherlock's legs until they were red and bleeding. Almost none of his skin was undamaged.

Moriarty set the flail down on the bed before lovingly running his hands down Sherlock's legs. He'd given up long before now and screamed, his throat raw and painful. Whimpering, Sherlock couldn't help but try to move away from the pressure on the opened stripes. Finally, Moriarty went back to the chair and sat down primly, picking up the plate to eat the bacon and eggs again. This gave Sherlock time to catch his breath and swallow a few times, trying to moisten his ravaged throat.

"I want proof John is still alive," Sherlock croaked after several false starts.

"Why?" Moriarty asked. "You don't believe me? I wouldn't hurt the pathetic dog now that I have you."

"You think I'll believe _you_?" Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. He shifted, trying not to move his legs much while finding a more comfortable position. "I wouldn't put it past you to have your pet sniper kill John the moment you closed that front door."

"How well you know me, dearest Sherlock," Moriarty chuckled, finishing his breakfast. "If it makes you feel better, love, I can get a picture of him for you."

With a final pat to one of the most raw parts of Sherlock's leg, Moriarty left the room and closed the door behind him. He grabbed his phone off the kitchen counter and called Gary. Who better to get a picture without the doctor knowing? But, the call rang out to voicemail. Moriarty scowled at the phone; this had _never_ happened before. Gary always answered. He tried twice more with the same result.

"Seems you've deserted me, my pet," Moriarty murmured to the empty room. He eyed the door to the bedroom he was keeping Sherlock in, wondering what he should do now. The obvious solution would be to go himself. But that could just be a ruse, especially if Sherlock had had his sniper taken out. He stood there, indecisive, his mind running in circles.

Sherlock listened carefully, trying to hear everything he could of what Moriarty was doing. He didn't hear the rumbling sounds of the madman talking, so he assumed the sniper wasn't answering. A grin slowly spread across his face; if Moriarty didn't have his sniper anymore, that meant his incarceration here was at an end. Quickly, Sherlock sat up and worked at untying his legs, ignoring the flashes of pain that shot up from the still-bleeding wounds.

Moving slowly, Sherlock crossed to the door and eased it open in time to hear Moriarty murmur to himself. This was better and better. He walked as quietly as he could up to the madman, intent on ending this all here and now. Neither he nor John would be safe as long as Moriarty was alive. As Sherlock reached out to wrap his hands around the other man's neck, Moriarty sensed him and turned.

"Goodbye," Sherlock said simply, his hand whipping out and the flat slamming into Moriarty's throat. As the madman choked, his hands wrapping around his throat, Sherlock stepped forward and efficiently snapped his neck. As the body fell, Sherlock moved towards the door and didn't glance back. James Moriarty had taken up enough of his time. It was time to get back to John.


	23. Sanctuary

Sherlock walked to the doorway, intent on leaving this place for good when the wounds on his legs twinged and he looked down. The raw stripes were still bleeding, little trails of red moving down his legs. He couldn’t go outside like this, just wearing boxers and a t-shirt. He would get arrested or draw unwelcome attention to himself.

Sighing, Sherlock stepped around the body lying on the floor and back into the bedroom. His clothes were a lost cause; Moriarty had taken great pleasure in cutting those off him when they first got here. The only thing Sherlock could do was root through some of Moriarty’s clothes and try to find something that sort of fit him.

Rifling through the closet, Sherlock found a suit and shirt that fit him enough that he wouldn’t look too out of place outside. Before he could put it on though, Sherlock knew he had to clean the wounds that still leaked blood on his legs. He walked into the attached bathroom and ran cool water, using a soft washcloth to sponge away the blood. The cuts had mostly started to scab up, the bleeding stopping quickly.

After he was clean, Sherlock dressed quickly and had to give Moriarty a nod at his fashion sense. The suit was impeccably tailored for the shorter man and was of very high quality. Deciding that a few more minutes in the flat couldn’t hurt, Sherlock looked around for anything that he could use. The search turned up a couple thousand pounds in cash, a gun, and other tools for torture.

Taking only the cash, since the police would probably be called as soon as Moriarty didn’t pay his rent or started to decompose, Sherlock walked slowly outside. He kept his strides short and even, much as he wanted to run, because he didn’t want to open up or inflame the wounds on his legs. The rubbing of the pants he was wearing was almost unbearable. About two blocks from Moriarty’s flat, he was able to flag down a cab.

The ride was a long twenty minutes, every bump and movement chafing his legs. He could feel some of the scabs break open again but ignored them. He could get them seen to later, once he had seen John. The cab pulled up outside the hospital and Sherlock paid the driver from the money he had found in Moriarty’s flat. A simple lie that he was John’s brother got him into the doctor’s private room and he paused in the doorway, just taking in John’s face.

The doctor was sleeping restlessly, his eyes fluttering behind his lids. His left hand was opening and closing on the sheets, deep wrinkles showing that he had been doing that for a while. Sherlock just looked, his heart pounding as he realized yet again exactly how much John meant to him. Much as he wanted to talk to him, Sherlock walked quietly into the room and sat down on the chair. He could wait.

\------------------------------------------------------------

_John was sitting in the flat, a cup of tea steaming in his hands. He was still wondering where Sherlock was, hoping the detective was still alive. Lestrade had given up hope by this time, Sherlock’s kidnapping relegated to a cold case. But it would never be cold to John. He sipped his tea, staring contemplatively at the window. The same one the bullet had torn through before hitting him._

_A knocking at the door disturbed him but John was too tired to get up. He merely called out, letting the caller know the door was open. Lestrade walked in, his face completely shuttered. Though, John could see a deep grief in his eyes and braced himself for the news he was sure was coming._

_“Hey, John,” Lestrade said carefully, sitting down across from the doctor in Sherlock’s chair. “How have you been?”_

_“You found him,” John replied flatly, not in the mood for verbal sparring. “How long ago?”_

_“This morning,” Lestrade replied heavily, sighing. This wasn’t going to be easy. “He was near New Scotland Yard.”_

_“Tell me,” John said, his eyes empty as he watched Lestrade. “Whatever it is you’re holding back, tell me.”_

_“His throat was slashed,” Lestrade said quickly, knowing sometimes it was better to get everything out up front. “He was also beaten badly and looked half-starved. He’s with Molly now.”_

_“I want to see him,” John said, getting up and shrugging into his coat. In a flash, he and Lestrade were in the morgue, a red-eyed and sniffling Molly standing over a body covered in a sheet._

_“This isn’t going to be pretty,” she warned before pulling the sheet back. John stared down at Sherlock’s lifeless face, his breath leaving his body._

_“God, no,” John muttered before falling to his knees on the floor. “No.”_

John woke to someone shaking him insistently and calling his name. He groaned as pain flashed through him and the movement stopped. He opened his eyes and blinked several times, not believing that he actually saw Sherlock in front of him.

“I’m still dreaming,” he said, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

“No,” Sherlock said simply, taking one of John’s hands and twining their fingers together. The last remnants of the dream faded away as John felt the warmth of Sherlock’s hand and a tentative smile bloomed on his face.

“How? What happened?” John asked, so many questions running through his mind but his mouth only cooperating with those three words. Sherlock understood him, though, knew what John wanted to know.

“I made a deal with Moriarty,” he explained. “Let you live in exchange for me becoming his prisoner again. The man was completely deranged; I think he would have done anything to have me come with him. So, once I knew you were safe, I left with him.”

Sherlock’s face closed then, the memory of what he had endured over the past three days heavy in his mind. John squeezed his hand, causing Sherlock to look up at him.

“Hey, no going away,” John said softly. “What happened then?”

“Well, you can guess Moriarty wasn’t gentle,” Sherlock replied wryly. “Though, lucky for me, he decided not to use box cutters. He whipped me while humming this annoying song. It was the song that got to me most, I think. I’m going to be hearing it in my nightmares for a while. Today, I asked him for proof you were still alive. He tried to call his pet sniper but didn’t get a reply. I deduced that that meant the man was no longer working for Moriarty and you were in no danger. I killed him and escaped.”

John’s mouth dropped open in surprise at the last few sentences, the full import of them slamming into his mind. He brought Sherlock’s hand to his mouth for a gentle kiss, a smile teasing at his mouth.

“I’m glad you came back,” he finally said. “And I’m glad we don’t have to worry about Moriarty anymore. But you said he whipped you. Are you ok? Do I need to call a doctor in here?”

Sherlock shifted and felt the pants catch on some of the wounds and pull away stickily in other places. He could feel blood trickling down his legs and knew that he needed to get them seen to. Nodding hesitantly, Sherlock settled back in the chair while John pressed the nurse’s call button.

“I need someone to see to my friend,” John said decisively when a nurse came in. “And to call DI Greg Lestrade to tell him Sherlock is back. I’m sure he’ll want to question him.”

The nurse nodded and left to get some supplies. She came back in, a happy-looking Lestrade following her. The DI kept his questions to himself while Sherlock changed into a hospital gown, dropping Moriarty’s clothes with a distinct look of distaste. The nurse efficiently cleaned and bandaged the wounds on Sherlock’s legs. To Greg’s eyes, it looked horribly painful and raw but John could see that it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

Finally, the nurse cleaned up her supplies and took herself out, leaving Lestrade staring at the two men. Without a thought for indecency, Sherlock climbed carefully into the bed with John, simply wanting to curl up into the other man and forget the world existed for a while.

“So, what happened?” Lestrade asked when Sherlock had settled with John’s arms wrapped around him. Sherlock explained the whole thing again, giving the address to the flat to Lestrade. It didn’t take as long this time, the telling easier for the detective.

Do you have anymore questions?” John asked, allowing some impatience to creep into his tone.

“No, you both get some rest,” Lestrade replied, putting away the little notebook he had pulled out automatically. “If I need anything else, I know where to find you.”

They both nodded their thanks, waiting until Lestrade left them to their little sanctuary before speaking. They opened their mouths at the same time, earning a chuckle from John. With a little wave, John told Sherlock to go first.

“I missed you,” the detective said, the sentiment the first thing he could get out. “Like last time, you kept me sane.”

“I missed you, too, Sherlock,” John replied, tightening his hold on Sherlock’s shoulders. “It was driving me crazy, being stuck in here while you were gone. But why did you make the deal with him?”

“Because I didn’t want him hurting you anymore,” Sherlock replied softly, tucking his head into John’s neck and closing his eyes. “Everything he did to you was because of me. He wanted me and you were in his way. The only way to stop him was to make that deal with him.”

“Well, he’s gone,” John said, his voice tinged with definite satisfaction. “We’ll be able to go home soon. Maybe we can take up where we left off.”

As Sherlock lifted his head to ask John to clarify that, John leaned down and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. The detective’s mouth opened quickly, inviting John to take whatever he wanted. He did slowly, teasing his tongue in between Sherlock’s lips and flicking at his tongue. They kissed slowly, letting heat and desire build between them. Finally, John pulled back and panted heavily.

“You should sleep,” John told Sherlock fondly. “When we’re both healthy again, we won’t be getting much sleep for a while.”

“Sounds like a perfect plan to me,” Sherlock replied, laying his head on John’s shoulder again and letting a smirk cross his face. “How long is that going to take again?”


	24. Overrated

It took another week before John was cleared to leave the hospital. The cuts and bruises Sherlock had gotten from Moriarty had almost completely healed and he was discharged on the fourth day. However, the stubborn detective wouldn’t leave John’s side, actually getting into a shouting match with one of the nurses when Sherlock refused to leave after visiting hours. It took a visit from Mycroft and some heavy-handed negotiations, but Sherlock was finally allowed to stay in the room.

The two men spent most of their time talking and holding each other, again hesitant to do more even in the private hotel room. After all, privacy was a state of mind and neither wanted to have the first time they continued their exploration of each other in the hospital room. Finally, the doctor let John go home with a long list of instructions for taking care of the wound in his shoulder.

“It feels good to be home,” John said as they walked into the flat at 221B. Mrs. Hudson had followed them inside, tutting over John and bustling into the kitchen to make tea. The window had been repaired, Mycroft taking care of it while John and Sherlock were in the hospital. Sherlock led John over to his armchair, extremely solicitous of the doctor since they’d left the hospital. John had tolerated it up until now, but he decided enough was enough.

“Sherlock, I’m not going to break,” John said, taking a tea cup and a biscuit from Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock sat down in his chair, ignoring the cup the landlady held out to him. “You don’t have to treat me like glass. The wound is nearly healed.”

“I don’t want you injuring yourself further,” Sherlock muttered, finally taking the teacup when Mrs. Hudson kept waving it in his face. He took a deep drink, hissing a little at the heat. “You’ve been hurt enough because of me.”

“I think I’ll let you boys settle in now,” Mrs. Hudson said, leaving a plate of biscuits and the teapot on the table next to John’s chair. She could see that they were shaping up to either have an argument or a private homecoming. Easing the door closed, Mrs. Hudson waited a few seconds at the top of the stairs. When there were no raised voices, she smiled and headed downstairs, winning the private bet with herself. Private homecoming it was.

“So,” John said softly when Sherlock just stared down at his teacup.

“So,” Sherlock repeated, taking another drink of his tea and not meeting John’s eyes.

John sighed silently and placed his teacup next to the plate of biscuits. He stood carefully, wincing only a little at the pull on his shoulder. He stepped forward three steps, took Sherlock’s cup out of his hands and placed it next to his own. Finally, John eased himself into Sherlock’s lap, watching carefully to make sure his weight didn’t bother the detective.

“Are you going to keep silent in guilt?” John asked, leaning forward so that his words ghosted over Sherlock’s ear. “Or are you going to welcome me home properly?”

“John...” Sherlock said then hesitated. He tilted his head back, meeting John’s eyes. “I want you to be safe. I don’t like you being hurt merely because of your association with me.”

“Safety is overrated, Sherlock,” John argued, shaking his head. “I joined the army as a doctor rather than going to work in a hospital. I ran around London with you, chasing criminals and solving cases. I don’t want safe. I want _you_.”

Sherlock’s quicksilver eyes narrowed and studied John, flicking over his face. John waited patiently while Sherlock deduced him, letting the truth show in his face and posture. The detective’s gaze was sharp and pointed, though John had gotten used to it by now. Even enjoyed the feel of those eyes on him. And if this was what Sherlock needed to reassure himself, John could sit here and let Sherlock read everything. John knew Sherlock blamed himself for everything and the detective needed to know that _John_ didn’t blame him.

“You aren’t disappointed with me,” Sherlock said softly, a wondering note in his voice.”You aren’t angry that I’m the reason Moriarty targeted you.”

“No, I’m not,” John replied decisively, leaning forward and kissing Sherlock. “None of this was your fault. It was that madman’s. He set everything up and you don’t need to blame yourself. If anything, I’m almost inclined to thank Moriarty.”

“ _Thank_ him?” Sherlock snapped, his eyes wide with shock. “What could possibly induce you to thank him?”

“Well, it’s partly his doing that we’re together now, isn’t it?” John pointed out, a smile on his face. “I think we would have gotten over dancing around it eventually, but I’m glad that he made us both realize how we felt about each other.”

Sherlock went still at that, his face curiously blank as he processed that statement. It was true; Sherlock probably wouldn’t have admitted feeling anything other than friendship for John if Moriarty hadn’t made him choose. Finally, a little knot dissolved in his chest and Sherlock smiled back, wrapping John in his arms.

“All right,” he said, the two words telling John everything he needed to know. With that, the tension between them eased and both men were able to lay the specter of Moriarty to rest. He leaned forward and kissed John, tentatively at first then with more confidence. John still smelled the same as the last time they kissed here in the flat, a combination of tea, oranges, and a clean linen scent.

“Hang on a minute,” John said, getting up and walking to the window. He looked outside, scanning over the building across the way then pulled the curtains. “Just in case.”

“Works for me,” Sherlock said then wrapped his arms around John again when the doctor settled into his lap. “Welcome home, John. My John.”

“Thank you,” John replied, kissing Sherlock softly. “Welcome home, my Sherlock.”

Though there would be more danger in the future, and more injuries, the two men let themselves love and heal. They knew they would be there for each other and no force would be able to tear them apart. And if Greg took them out for a few pints about a week after they got home, Sherlock didn’t mention that it was thanks to them that the DI had come into the rather large sum of money. After all, Sherlock was just glad that Donovan hadn’t won the bet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We come to the end of The Madman and the Detective. My muse wasn't cooperating, so the rating with this is going to stay mature due to the graphic stuff. Thank you, everyone who read this story and enjoyed it. I hope you follow me to other Sherlock stories


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